


Thick as Thieves

by blarfkey



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dwarves, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Named Cadash (Dragon Age), Slow Burn, Solas POV, Solas has a judgy mouth, Where is the dwarf love, and it gets him into trouble, culture clash, solasmance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-07-23 14:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16161074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarfkey/pseuds/blarfkey
Summary: Everything he had planned for the last several centuries has gone up in the literal smoke still billowing from the conclave and his only hopes lies embedded in the hand of a petty criminal dwarf who looks barely old enough to buy a mug of ale. It takes all his self control not to cackle in some forgotten corner like the mad Fen'Harel of Dalish infamy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've noticed that even among the Solas rarepairs there is almost no Cadash/Solas whatsoever. It's like trying to find a unicorn. Well, I've made my own unicorn because dwarves are wonderful and Solas needs someone who doesn't give a single shit about magic or the Fade just to throw him off a bit.

The dwarf who  bears his mark is not in any way intimidating. She reminds Solas of a child, not just in stature (though the top of her head barely graces his shoulder) but in her countenance. With round cheeks splattered with freckles and eyes like a fawn,  she carries an air of innocence. In fact, the most frightening thing about her is the pair of wicked daggers strapped to her back and even they look out of place, a child playing dress-up. It makes Cassandra's caution look almost comical. 

He can tell from the bewildered expression on her face that she has had few interactions with powerful magic. She has no issue stabbing demons, yet stalls in front of the rift, forcing him to grab the mark and do it for her. Afterwards, she stares at her in hand in morbid fascination.

"What did you do?" she asks.

" _I_  did nothing. The credit is yours." Millenia of practice allows him to speak these words with a smile as he swallows bile.

Noticing Cassandra's agitated pacing int he corner of his eye, he launches into an explanation of the mark and it's abilities, based on his "theories." The lies fall easy from his lips, a skill he is not proud to have. Cassandra, desperate for hope, swallows them without question.

"It seems you hold the key to our salvation," he tells the dwarf, and the bitter irony of that statement nearly chokes him. 

She just looks at him, lost and perhaps a little horrified. He almost feels pity for her, this simple creature who stumbled into magic far beyond what she can handle. A protective urge wells up in him and he stamps it back down. 

"And here I thought we'd be ass deep in demons forever." Varric pipes up, unable to handle not being the center of attention for more than a few minutes.  "Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and, occasionally, unwelcome tagalong." 

He throws Cassandra a wink, who rolls her eyes. Solas secretly wants to join her. 

"Are you with the Chantry, or . . ." she trails off. 

Solas laughs, he can't help it. The thought of Varric praying piously in front a statue of Andraste, his chest hair on full display -- "Is that serious question?"

Her deadpan tone says yes, but there's a gleam in her eye, a spark of levity that suggests otherwise.

"Technically I'm a prisoner here -- just like you," Varric says, which immediately offends Cassandra. 

"I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine.  _Clearly_  that's no longer necessary."

"And  yet here I am. Lucky for you, considering current events."

The prisoner  graces Varric with her first smile. It's small and weak -- barely more than the twitch of her mouth -- but the spark of warmth it brings promises that the full effect could be dangerous indeed.

"It's good to meet you Varric," she says. 

"You may reconsider that, in time," murmurs Solas. Despite the shortness of their acquaintance, Varric and Cassandra bicker more often than most married couples that Solas knew. 

"Aww, I'm sure we'll become great friends int he valley, Chuckles," Varric shoots right back to him. It took him approximately half a day to bestow an ironic nickname for Solas that, unfortunately, shows no signs of dying down.

"Absolutely not." Cassandra steps in between them, lording her height over Varric, who does not back down.

Solas braces himself for yet another one of their spats.

"My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions," he says to the prisoner as they argue in the background. "I'm pleased to see you still yet live."

But not for much longer. He stopped the mark from killing her instantly, but he can only hold off it's effect for so long. Eventually it will destroy this dwarf, devour her like dry firewood.

"Shay Cadash," she says, turning that small but dangerous smile on him. 

"What he means is, 'I kept that mark from killing you as you slept'," Varric interjects, surprising Solas at how quick he is to give others credit. 

Her smile drops immediately. A strange look replaces it- like she swallowed something bitter. But she covers it up quickly enough to make Solas wonder if he had seen it at all. 

"Then I owe you my thanks," she says, turning towards him and giving him a solomn bow of her head. 

She looks anything but grateful. 

"Thank me if we manage to close the breach without killing you in the process," he says. He has no need of her gratitude. He wants to get rid of the Breach and get his orb back -- and if the dwarf dies, well that makes getting his mark back remarkably easier. 

He assures Cassandra that no mage, much less a dwarf, could ever have the power to create the Breach.  And though he has nothing to reccomend him -- no allies or education or background to vouch for him -- Cassandra accepts them without protest. He does not know if she is merely naive or has an innate judge of character, but her trust in him will be easily exploited. 

"We must get to the forward camp quickly," she says and they move on, the dwarf trailing behind them.

 

"So let me guess: Surface dwarf, maybe part of the Carta?"

They've headed into the forest, snow drifting from the pines overhead at the slightest breeze. Varric walks beside the prisoner as if they're on a leisurely stroll to admire the scenery, his crossbow slung over his shoulder. 

"What makes you say that?"

"I can tell a proper Orzamarr dwarf from fifty paces. Also you got that shifty smuggler look to you."

Solas raises an eyebrow. He has seen shifty smuggler dwarves -- eye-patches and rough beards and scars. The prisoner's  guilelessbrown eyes and freckled cheeks does not resemble them any more than Solas resembles the Dalish.  

The prisoner certainly stiffens at the remark. "Are you calling me a criminal?" 

He can tell she is fighting to sound nonchalant.

"You  _are_  a criminal," Cassandra says, disgusted. 

"Now now," says Varric in a condescending tone that is sure to grate on Cassandra. "There's nothing wrong with being a criminal. Keeps the guards in business."

If Solas had any doubts that Varric dabbled in illegal ventures, they have all but disappeared. 

"Well I'm not the only one with the shifty smuggler look," says the prisoner, looking at Varric pointedly.

"Varric didn't destroy the conclave," Cassandra snaps.

"That you know of," says Varric. "We shifty smuggler types can be tricky."

He winks at the prisoner. An hour into their acquaintance and Varric is already trying to adopt her. Solas wonders how long it will take for the prisoner to gain an embarrassing nickname. He had "Chuckles" in two days.

It does not escape his notice, however, that the prisoner never denied her Carta associations. It seems almost unbelievable, looking at her, but that might be the point. She might use her youth and air of innocence as tools to make her enemies underestimate her. He can't deny their effectiveness -- he fell for it himself. It makes this entire mess of a situation even more complicated and Solas bites his tongue to keep the hysterics down.

Everything he had planned for the last several centuries has gone up in the literal smoke still billowing from the Conclave and his only hope lies embedded in the hand of a petty criminal  _dwarf_ who looks barely old enough to buy a mug of ale. It takes all his self control not to cackle in some forgotten corner like the  mad Fen'Harel of Dalish infamy. 

 

 

Every aspect of Fen'Harel he crafted to be a spectacle, from his dress to his mannerisms to his speech. His name alone summoned dread in his enemies and strength in his allies. Even a thousand years later, the Dalish fear to speak it. 

Solas, by comparison, must be invisible.  Mild. Polite. His clothes simple, his voice pleasant, his words comforting and informative by turns. Solas the humble apostate is no less a fabrication than Fen'Harel and compared to Cassandra's intensity and Varric's quick wit, he melts into the background, forgotten. Free to watch the bearer of his mark and what he notices does her little credit.

They call her the Herald. Cadash either confirms or denies this, depending on who she is talking to. Much of the Herald's disposition changes with her surroundings and companions. It makes it difficult to pinpoint exactly who she is. The only constants are her levity, a trait blooming to life now that she has grown more comfortable and the threat of execution no longer hangs over her head, and her ability to win over each and every person in the Inquisition with a systematic determination that disturbs him. 

Cassandra's suspicions lasted barely the first night. Part of this stems from her own intelligence, for not even grief or anger can blind her from seeing the truth of a situation. She lives up to her title in that respect. But Cadash's continual expressions of respect for Cassandra, discussions of her faith, her immediate loyalty to the Inquisition's cause certainly helped that forgiveness along. 

Cadash speaks tactics and shares underworld contacts with Leliana. She compliments Cullen's leadership and spars with his soldiers. She trades quips with Varric and insults Orzamarr Dwarves and of course she has read all of his books. 

She doesn't quite know what to make of Solas -- no one here does -- but she always offers that dangerous fragment of a smile for him and combats his formality by trying to make him laugh. In fact, she goes out of her way to acknowledge him, even if it's just offering up a "good morning" or asking how well he slept. No matter how much he tries to stay in the background, he always attracts her attention.

It would all seem coincidental if Solas has not witnessed the calculating expression that creeps on her face when she thinks no one is watching her. No matter how genuine she may seem, it's clear her interactions are charades, carefully calculated and flawless executed to secure the people's loyalty.

It leaves the truth of Shay Cadash a mystery, but one Solas will piece together.

"Good morning, " she greets him the day before they head out for the Hinterlands.

"The Chosen of Andraste," he says, a hint of bitterness he can't control seeping into his tone. "The blessed hero come to save us all."

She looks over at him, her lips quirked and that gleam in her eye, as if they two of them are sharing an inside joke. 

"That sounds a lot flashier than Freckles," she says, citing Varric's nickname for her. "Tell me, am I riding in on a shining steed?"

A smile twitches on his face before he can stop it. He must admit, it's hard not to be charmed by her at times. Parts of her interactions are genuine. But her sincerity to makes her insincerity all the more believable.

"I would have suggested a griffon. But sadly they're extinct. Joke as you will, but posturing is necessary."

As if she needed such advice, but Solas needs to find a role to play if he wants to stay in the Inquisition and Mentor gives him a perfect amount of influence.

The Herald rolls her eyes and leans closer to her him, lowering her voice."This whole ordeal feels like a farce, to be honest, like some great joke of the universe. All I wanted to do was find out how the mange/templar was going to screw with Lyrium sales. Trust me, I did  _not_  ask for any of this."

She glances down at her gloved hand, the light of the Anchor barely imperceptible through the leather. Rather than parade it around, the mark stays hidden, as if she cannot bear to look at it.

"But someone has to seal the Breach and no one else's hand has been possessed by ancient, unknown magic, so I guess everyone is stuck with me."

For a brief moment she looks lost, uncertain, a dark cloud stolen over the sunlight of her disposition. Needles of guilt prick him, but Solas ignores it. This is nothing more than an attempt to make him feel protective of her and he cannot be manipulated.

"Spoken nobly indeed," he says instead.

Judging by the raised eyebrow he gets from her, he did not entirely suppress his sarcasm. 

"You think I'm mocking you. This age has made people cynical." He turns and looks over at the cage of mountains that surround them. "I've journeyed deep into the Fade and ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clashed to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten."

He turns back to her.  "Every great war has it's heroes. I'm just curious as to what kind you'll be."

He allows his words to settle like heavy fog between them. Let her know that he is watching. Let her know that her every action is being weighed and judged. She may not care what an apostate thinks of her, but Fen'Harel's conclusion will be a matter of her life and death. 

If she notices the weight of his speech, it does not show in her face. The cloud has passed and her eyes are bright.

"Hopefully the kind that chases kids off my farm with my cane and rambles on endlessly about the glory days to anyone who makes eye contact with me in a bar."

Despite his best efforts, the corner of his lip tugs up.  "I  can think of worse fates."

She takes her leave then, to finish packing for the Hinterlands and finalize plans with Cullen. Solas watches her go, frustrated. Her jokes give him nothing of substance to analyze,  tell him nothing about her save perhaps an aversion to taking anything seriously. (No wonder she and Varric get along so well.)

He cannot shake the feeling that she did so on purpose.

 

 

Solas keeps his suspicions of the Herald to himself. It's clear now, after gaining three more recruits, that Cadash is very good at what she does: she systematically finds a point of commonality between her and any given member of the Inquisition and exploits it. It doesn't matter if they are an Orlesian court enchanter, a Grey Warden or a street urchin with a bow -- Cadash won them over in the time it takes Solas to choke down a cup of tea.

Only he remains unaffected from her guileless tactics, perhaps because his situation so closely mirrors hers. They are both outcasts, pretending fealty to the Inquisition to secure their own survival, manipulating the people around them to hide the truth of their identity.

Shay Cadash isn’t the chosen messenger of a goddess any more than Solas is a humble apostate. The hypocrisy of his disapproval is not lost upon him; yet Solas finds something dishonest in how far she will take her manipulations. He keeps his companions at a polite, but firm, distance with strict boundaries – he would never go so far as to fabricate camaraderie.

The Herald has no such compunctions; Watching her trade stories with Varric, or prank ideas with Sera or discussing Grey Warden history with Blackwall -- watching them slowly open up to her, while she plays them like puppets on a string, leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He refuses to join them, keeping up his rigid formality in the face of all her questions and humor. It frustrates her, he can tell. She drags him all over the Hinterlands for weeks as the sole mage of the party, peppering him with question after question. The Fade fascinates her.  A part of Solas would like to believe in her insatiable curiosity, but he knows that if he did not value the Fade so openly, she would have lost interest in it weeks ago. 

That does not stop him from enabling her behavior, if only for the pathetic reason that he dearly wishes to have someone with whom to discuss it. She may raise some eyebrows at his ideas, but she never openly passes judgement upon them. He wishes everyone else had the open-mindedness she appears to have and he wishes, secretly, that it wasn't an obvious ploy to win his loyalty. 

It's almost enough to make one forget that she's the member of a ruthless crime family. But she gives herself away in her deft hands, able to pick any non-magical lock, or in her silent footsteps, the way she can sense even the subtlest traps. No matter how enthusiastically she embraces the Inquisition, Solas has no doubts that she schemes for ways to give herself power and influence through it. 

Unfortunately, just as he can sniff out a fellow deceiver, so can she. Cadash has been checking him out with less subtlety than she believes. Cloaked in flattery, in the facsimile of friendship, in the nonchalant air of a joke, she keeps him close, prods him with questions, tests his answers. She neatly side-steps all questions about her life in the Carta and yet has no issue probing into the depths of everyone else's personal life, most notably his. 

It's on one such occasion that his polite veneer finally cracks.  She is plying him with questions about his origin. He counters them with  the same vague, inconclusive answers she gives everyone else, but inside his temper boils. He's sick of her distrust, her false overtures of friendship, her hypocrisy.

"You said earlier you’re from the north, Solas. How far north? Are you used to snow? Is that you can walk around with bare feet all the time? Or is that magic? Or is it just an elf thing? Do elves have special feet?"

The questions pop out like fireflies, as if one question in turn inspires another and she must ask them all before she forgets. Her child-like curiosity is almost winsome, but Solas refuses to be charmed by it. 

He is sick of playing this game with her while she thinks she can charm his suspicions away like she has done to everyone else. As if he's as naive as a toddler. 

"I know what you're doing, Herald," he says. "And I must warn you, it will not work on me."

Surprise flickers across her face, quick as as candle flame before she snuffs it out. He treasures it all the same, a mark of triumph.

"Oh God,” she says, her eyes fluttering close. “I’m getting annoying, aren’t I? I don't mean to intrude, I just think you're fascinating. I'm interested in what you have to say.  You can tell me to shut up if I get to be too much; it won't offend me. My cousin's done it a hundred times."

Oh, she is good. In the face of her sudden embarrassment, Solas almost feels guilty for calling her out. 

Almost.

"You're probing me. Trying to catch me in a lie. Testing my loyalty."

After a moment her features relax into something more sheepish -- but not at all regretful. 

"You caught me," she says with a rueful smile. "But you can hardly blame me. You're so distant and mysterious. It’s hard not to be curious about you.”

How tightly she still clings to pretense, as if she still had a chance to deceive him. She has no idea who she’s dealing with.

"And the fact that I'm both an elf and an apostate mage has nothing to do with your curiosity?” He struggles to keep his tone neutral.

Her head cocks to the side. "I don’t know. Does the fact that I’m a Carta dwarf have anything to do with the fact that you don't like me?"

Her blunt response leave him floundering for a reply.  

"It's not hypocritical to be distrustful of a criminal," he snaps, his control breaking. “It’s just common sense.”

Hurt flashes in her eyes, just a split second before her face shutters into apathy. Solas curses himself and his temper. He is too old and too experienced to allow someone so young and idiotic to get to him. Besides, the Herald has power and influence in the Inquisition now; it’s dangerous to make her an enemy.

"I apologize," he says, though the words taste bitter in his mouth. "That was uncalled for.

Her demeanor shifts. The look in her eyes grows sharp and calculating. She stands confidant, chin up and shoulders straight. No trace of her genial, sunny disposition remains. Like a veil lifted, Solas finally sees the true Shay Cadash.

"Oh, don’t bother,” she says. “You were just being honest. Probably for the first time. I appreciate it, actually, more than that polite mask you wear all the time. And I’m not the only criminal here, _apostate_. We’re both in a precarious boat and you’re not exactly in a position to be alienating potential allies.”

“And what do you mean by that?” he says. The implication in her words is clear, but it’s impossible for anyone to know of his part in the destruction.

“I mean, if I were going to point fingers at who blew up the temple, I would start with the weird apostate who knows everything about the Fade and showed up out of nowhere.”

Solas keeps his expression very still. He does not allow himself even the tiniest of flinches, for none would escape her notice. 

“You cast suspicion to draw attention away from yourself,” he tells her shortly, aiming his tone for offended and disdainful. “I was no where near the temple at the time of the explosion. Leilana has confirmed this with multiple witnesses. Do you not trust her word?”

Her gaze does not waver, unconvinced and unfazed.

“What’s your last name, Solas?”

A multitude of names, both real and stolen, fly through his mind, but he waits too long to answer.

“That’s what I thought,” she says and her matter-of-fact tone cuts through him like a knife.  “See, Solas, here’s the thing. I have just about as much control of being a part of the Carta as you have over being a mage. But at least the Carta taught me that loyalty matters above all else. We might backstab everyone around us, but we’re loyal to our own. Without that loyalty, infighting makes the Carta fall to pieces. By those standards, this Inquisition isn't any different. And already, people from all races and beliefs and classes have started to unite themselves for this goal. Except for you."

Her conscious mind knows nothing dangerous about him, but her instincts practically scream his duplicity, he can see it in her eyes.

He is stepping on thin ice here.

"How do you come to that conclusion?" he asks. “I volunteered my services. I’m here because I _chose_ to be _._ ”

_Unlike you_ , the implication clearly states, but if it insults her, the Herald does not let it show.

"You shun all company,” she says, ticking it off on her finger.  “You give almost no personal information about yourself, and you distract others from this by being free and open about your esoteric information on the Fade that, conveniently, only you know. Everyone else here has ties and history and relationships. You are a complete unknown, even to our spymaster. If anyone could just up walk away from the Inquisition and sell all our secrets, it would be you."

In the last year Solas has found himself lost in the remnants of a world unmade by his own hand, with nothing but a paltry shadow of his former power to protect him from the violence that springs up in every corner, and stuck in the middle a powerful organization out for his head.

And yet the instincts of a simple dwarf, this young woman barely out of childhood, this criminal _street rat_ , makes him feel more vulnerable than any of the other dangers combined. It's infuriating. Solas has played the Game flawlessly in a court a thousand times more vicious and bloodthirsty than Orlais could ever hope to be. Yet he cannot fool one simpleminded, magicless _dwarf._

"I assure you, closing the Breach is of the utmost importance to me," he says, not that his words have any impact on her. "The Inquisition has my complete loyalty for that cause."

She waves his reassurances aside with a dismissive hand.

"Your assurances are meaningless if I don't know the kind of person you are. And I've tried to figure that out by befriending you, but you won't let me. You have too many walls up. Maybe if I were another elf, they might come down, but a dwarf stands no chance, does she? And certainly not a criminal.”

Solas does not know how to respond to that in a way that would not further offend her. His people never understood or agreed with Dwarves, and he carries that with him into this new age. Not all dwarves are inherently bad, but they lack imagination and have little concern over issues that outside their sheltered world. Both qualities do little to inspire faith in this woman's ability to handle the Breach.

Something in her gaze shifts, her glare softening into something . . .tired. “You want honesty, Solas? Here’s some honesty. You frighten me. You saved my life and therefore I owe you a very great debt. I don't like not understanding the kind of person I owe and what they would ask of me.”

Before he can respond, Leliana appears. Solas would be real coin that she eavesdropped on at least part of their conversation, but she is too professional to let it show on her face.

"Ah, Herald,"  she says. "If you have a moment, I would like to share with you some information on Redcliffe that's come in."

"I have the time," the Herald says and she leaves without giving Solas so much as another glance.

 

 

After their conversation, the Herald changes. She still keeps up appearances, asking him relevant questions about the rifts, taking him with her to the Storm Coast, where she picks up a Qunari spy without so much as batting and eyelash at the dangerous implications of having such an ally.

When the others are present, it is as if the argument never happened. Only Solas can feel the difference: smiles that no longer reach her eyes, questions that are short and to the point without any of her usual curious rambling, ignoring his presence when she passes him in Haven instead of walking over with a greeting and a smile.

He thought he would prefer it.

Instead he finds it nearly intolerable.

Did she ever feel this patronized by his own brand of distant civility, as if he were too stupid to notice how thin the polite veneer was over her dislike? Every murmured “good morning,” every health poultice tossed to him in battle, feels somehow like a slap in the face; a duty rather than courtesy.

To add insult to injury, comparing their interaction with those she has with the other companions makes the chill of her attitude even more apparent. She and the Iron Bull connect near instantaneously, probably because if their many shared and dubious commonalities. Only because of its absence does Solas notice how often the Herald had tried to engage him in laughter and discussion before.

The most pressing issue is how his position within the Inquisition is now at risk. With each new success, both big and small, The Herald gathers more power and influence within the Inquisition. If she does decide to pursue her suspicions of him, Cassandra would have him banished before nightfall, and Solas needs the power and resources of the Inquisition to reacquire his orb.

Allowing his irritation to push him outside the boundaries of propriety and anonymity was a stupid, reckless move, the kind his younger self would have made. Solas cannot afford any more such mistakes; he walks a precarious line here, as Cadash infuriatingly pointed out.

If he wants any chance of his plans coming to fruition then he must return to the Herald’s good graces. And soon.

 

But underneath his frustration lies a true kernel of guilt that refuses to stay hidden in the background noise of his thoughts, like a stone in his foot wrappings. In that split second after he called her a criminal, Solas saw a flash of genuine pain. He had hurt her and he could tell its sincerity by how quickly she buried it.

Her words haunt him for days after.

_"It's not hypocritical to be distrustful of a criminal, it's just common sense."_

Indeed., such words could be thrown back at him and ring more truthfully. She can't know. She cannot _possibly_ know and yet her instincts somehow tell her otherwise. Her unerring, perceptive suspicions make him afraid and in his fear he has lashed out and made an enemy.

Three thousand years old and he still acts like a child. 

_Here’s some honesty: you frighten me._

Solas. Frightening. To others the idea may seem absurd, a reaction he carefully cultivates. The truth of his identity would truly terrify her more so than the blank of the unknown that she despises. But these words haunt him more than the others. She doesn't fear his magic or his love of the Fade as the others do, but the vulnerability of being in debt to someone who could extract a terrible price for it.  And she has no way of knowing that he would never ask of such a thing.

(The bitter irony that she believes he saved her life disquiets him.)

He can tolerate this no longer. He needs the protection that her friendship would provide -- and if that means to fabricate an apology and start over, then so be it. Two can play at that particular game.

(Solas ignores the thought that hovers in the back of his mind that he may have genuinely misjudged her).

He waits impatiently for their return to Skyhold and the opportunity to speak with her privately, finally securing one as she leaves the stables. 

"Herald," he calls, increasing his stride to catch up to her. She stops and waits for him, even though it would take but a moment to for his longer legs to close the gap between them.  Her face shifts in a mask of indifference.

"May we speak in private? I have something important to discuss with you."

A wariness steals into the Herald's gaze and Solas feels a pinprick of guilt.

"Alright," she says. 

She must think he has information about their upcoming meeting with the mages to follow him. Not everyone in the Inquisition would welcome such an alliance, but the Herald is adamant for it. She's sold smuggled to too many desperate, bloodthirsty templars to trust them, or so she says. 

He leads her to the shack that houses him, opens the door, and gestures for her to walk inside. She gives him a calculating look, no doubt looking for a potential threat in his behavior, before stepping inside. He follows, leaving the door cracked open and standing so that she is closest to it.

"If it's something this sensitive, perhaps we should go to Josephine or Leliana," she says.

Solas shakes his head. "It is something personal, between us."

 " . . .Oh." She shifts her footing, anxiety spasming across her features before she schools it under control. Solas does not like to see her cage her emotions when she lets her personality fly free around everyone else. He is indeed a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but no one is supposed to be frightened of him yet. Much as she irritates him, Solas does not wish her actual harm.

He underestimated how much pride she has, which should have been the one dwarf stereotype he remembered.

"I would like to offer my sincerest apologies for my behavior the last time we spoke," he begins. "I had gravely misjudged you, blinded by my own prejudices. What I said to you is unacceptable and I beg your forgiveness."

Judging from the surprise on her face, she probably expected more abuse from him and this shames him. But even still, her eyes remain wary, an unwillingness to believe him.

"What brings this on?" she asks. "That argument was weeks ago."

"Your words and my own observations. I initially mistook your camaraderie for manipulation, but I now see that I was wrong." He gives her a self-deprecating smile, using her own tactic against her. "You, however, were completely right about me. I'm used to a solitary life, so I naturally shy away from attachments, but I've also made it easy to slip away if I needed to. I'm an apostate mage, surrounded by Chantry forces. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you must understand my caution."

"I do," she says, and her posture relaxes. "But you've stuck around to help at the risk of your own freedom. I'm not going to let anyone use that against you, not even someone as scary as Cassandra."

"And how would you stop them," he asks. Despite her easy confidence, she is so very young, not even into her third decade yet.

"However I had to," she says and it doesn't sound cocky or self-assured. It sounds like a forgone conclusion. 

He's unexpectedly touched by it.

"Even someone who has hurt you?"

She levels him with an exasperated look. "We're all on the same team here, Solas, and the problem we face is far bigger than any petty squabbles and personal prejudices. You're a useful ally and I owe you my life. No one is going to lay a hand on you."

Her ability to see the bigger picture, to put aside infighting for a common goal, sound so far from what he expected from a dwarf. Perhaps he should reevaluate his opinion of her.

Though the situation doesn't merit it, Solas has to inwardly smile at such defense of his well being. It has been a  _very_ long time since someone has underestimated him to such a degree and he finds the untruth oddly freeing.

"Thank you," he tells her. "And, please, do not worry yourself over your debt. You owe me nothing."

The Herald graces him with a sad, half smile. "That's a sweet sentiment, Solas, but a debt is never forgotten or forgiven. One way or another, it's always paid."

"That's quite a cynical view of things." Not surprising, considering her past, but Solas wisely does not voice this.

"From your point of view, perhaps. But to me, a favor for a favor keeps things equal and honest and everyone knows where they stand with each other. I find that preferable to people who hand wave a debt, only to remind me of it later when they need something from me."

What situations she's experienced to have such a pragmatic view so young he can only imagine. 

"I cannot fault your logic," he says.  "I will consider your debt repaid, then, when you close the Breach."

"How convenient, when that's already my goal," she says, the side of her mouth quirking up.

He wants to make a joke in return, but his sense of humor (withered and twisted for centuries of disuse) comes up short, especially facing the sudden intensity of her gaze. She studies him, no doubt looking for signs of trickery or insincerity. 

Still not trusting him. 

He can only look back at her and hope he doesn't come up short in her scrutiny.

"I appreciate your apology, Solas," she says softly. "I know how hard those can be and you didn't have to.”

"Perhaps we can put this whole fiasco behind us, then," he says.

"I think I would prefer to start over."

The Herald sticks her hand out and graces him with the full brilliance of her smile. It blooms like embrium, turning her tea-dark eyes warm and bright, and he understands a little why the others follow her so readily.

"I'm Shay, if there are to be introductions."

His own words from that fateful day, verbatim. Perhaps he made a bigger impression on her than he had thought.

"Solas." Instead of shaking her hand, he bends down and kisses the tops of her fingers. It's an impulsive decision, but she deserves a gentleman's manners, if only to make up for his lack of decorum before. 

Besides, she isn't the only one who knows how to charm.

Judging from the way her cheeks glow, he succeeded. A step in the right direction.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fade talks. All the Fade talks.

It changes nothing, of course. The Breach and Corypheus derail his plans only temporarily; he can't afford any attachments in the Inquisition, but he must admit that pretending to be the Herald’s friend is his easiest task.

 

 

"Well, if I had any dreams, this place would certainly haunt them."

 

"It's the most miserable shit hole I've ever seen, and that's coming from someone who lives in Lowtown Kirkwall," Varric agrees.

 

Solas has to side with Varric on this one.  The rain-drenched, corpse-infested Fallow Mire manages to be even more unsettling than some of the Fade's most desolate places. Cadash surveys their surroundings with her hands on her hips. The faint green glow of the veilfire torch casts a pallor on her complexion, washing out her freckles, and the rain leaves her intricate braided bun limp and frayed. 

 

"Let's get this freaky shite over with and get back to Haven, yeah?" Sera says. "I'm going to need a lot to drink after this."

 

An animal moves in the distance and her hand makes an aborted jerk towards her bow. The spiteful part of Solas grins inwardly at her anxiety. This place seems a perfect storm of her many fears.

 

But the Herald has yet to lose her cheer even in the face of such a cheerless place. The first time she strayed into the water and a corpse hand grabbed her ankle, her screams nearly shattered his ear drum, but after dismembering it, Cadash sat on the gravel path and laughed until tears at her own hysterics. 

 

"This place would be  the perfect setting for a horror novel," she tells Varric and the two of them trade plot ideas that gradually stray more and more into satire territory.

 

Every so often she will nudge Solas and whisper inappropriate puns or a spot on imitation of Sera losing her composure around the Fade demons and undead until Solas has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing aloud. 

 

She also becomes increasingly concerned over the state of his feet, checking them out in the glow of the torch light along their path in side-eyed glances that are not as subtle as she thinks. 

 

Finally, after establishing their second camp, she pops into the tent where Solas has sought retreat from the endless rain and drops a pair of worn leather boots in front of his lap. 

 

"Try these on, see if they fit," she says. 

 

Solas looks down at the shoes, the dark leather worn with time and scuffed. He suspects they might be a mismatched pair, but it’s hard to tell in this light.

 

"Herald, it may have escaped your notice, but I don't typically wear shoes _,"_ he says with only a hint of irony.

 

The Herald makes a grimace "Oh, I noticed. Trust me, it's hard _not_ to notice you tramping through corpse infested bog water with only your weird foot wraps. Put the boots on."

 

"I appreciate the offer, but I don't need them."

 

The Herald graces him with a deeply skeptical look. "Well, one of us has to worry about the nightmarish, flesh-eating infection that undoubtedly awaits in that water, and it's clearly not going to be you."

 

Solas chuckles. "I have spells that protect me from what my calluses and wraps cannot. You need not worry about me."

 

The Herald wrinkles her nose. "But . . . doesn't it feel disgusting?"

 

"I have not worn shoes in --" _eleven hundred years_  "-- a very long time. They would impede my progress more than they would help me."

 

"Well, I'm keeping these just in case you change your mind."

 

He gives her a rare smile. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Herald."

 

"It's Shay and you're welcome." She rolls her eyes. "Someone needs to look out after you."

 

It stuns him, that simple affirmation. The others might take these small kindnesses for granted, but Solas hasn't had companionship outside the Fade for so achingly long that he can’t help but enjoy her fussing.

  
  


Exhausted and bedraggled, Solas is only happy to bid farewell to the Fallow Mire. Joined with their ragtag team of Inquisition rescues is Skywatcher, because of course Cadash managed to charm a man whose torso sits taller than her head and carries a maul heavier than her entire body mass.  

 

But as Solas watches her interactions with a more open mind, he notices that she gains respect through accepting unfamiliar world views or ideas, rather than dismissing them. Even ones as strange as flocks of birds for augers and a goddess of the sky. 

 

It's possible that she has mastered this as a form of manipulation, but it feels like genuine curiosity to Solas, a trait she has shown to more than just him and his beliefs. She spends some of their journey asking all about the Avvar's Lady of the Skies and their relationship with the Fade, the answers of which she excitedly shares with Solas in front of the campfire. 

 

"Did you know that Avvar mages learn magic from having spirits posses them?" she says, whispering and casting glances over at Sera to ensure the elf isn't listening. "They call them their gods, but they are talking about spirits, right?"

 

"Yes. It's a ritual both practical and sacred to them," says Solas. He has spoken with spirits who trained Avvar mages. 

 

"It's almost hard to believe. Everything I've ever heard from Templars and mages about spirits say that possession is both an abomination and irreversible."

 

He glances down at her, weighing her expression. "Does it unsettle you to know otherwise?"

 

"Not really." She gives him one of her secret smiles. "But Vivienne would have  _fucking_  heart attack. I almost regret not taking her."

 

"I doubt her wardrobe would be able to navigate such difficult terrain."

 

Cadash laughs. "Especially those weird horns she wears on her helmet. She looks like a villain from a fairy tale."

 

Solas is rather surprised to hear her say something negative about one of their companions. "I thought you enjoyed her company."

 

"I have a healthy respect for Vivienne, but she reminds me too much of my grandmother for me to ever relax around her and have fun."

 

"What was your grandmother like?"

 

Something flickers across her face, to fast for Solas to identify it before her features smooth out and she smiles again. "A scary bitch," she says before abruptly changing the subject. "So how does it work, your Fade thing?

 

"I beg your pardon?" 

 

"You said stuff a while ago about seeing ruins and battlefields in the Fade," she says. "What did you mean by it?"

 

"Any building that has stood through the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is full of death. Both attract spirits. They press against the veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories that no other living being has ever seen."

 

Her eyebrows raise.  "You fall asleep in the middle of ancient ruins? And nobody robs you . . . or eats you?"

 

"I do set wards. And if you leave food out for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live."

 

A shudder passes through the Herald. "Spiders are one of the few things I absolutely cannot deal with."

 

"Even the tiny ones?"

 

" _Especially_  the tiny ones. Those kind disappear in your sheets and bite you in horrible places. A friend of my father's knew a guy who was bitten by one and his shit turned black and fell off."

 

"His what"

 

"His _shit,_ Solas." She gives a meaningful gaze down to just past his navel.

 

He is surprised by a burst of his own laughter. "Surely that didn't actually happen."

 

"Of course it did. The big ones spit out poison, I'm sure their bastard cousins aren't any better."

 

"It's certainly a fear I never thought I'd have," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I'll have to be more careful, then, when I fall asleep."

 

Cadash nods as if she has done him a great favor. "You know, I've talked to a lot of Templars and mages, but I've never heard of anyone going that far into the Fade."

 

In uthenera, the Fade was everything to him -- home, family, a way to keep up with goings on of a world he unraveled. Every time he goes to sleep it's like finding his way back home. 

 

"It's not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. It's not as flashy as fire or lightning. The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything."

 

"What does that mean, remnants of dreams?"

 

She looks up at him somewhat owlishly, and he remembers suddenly that she cannot dream, cannot even conceptualize the idea of dreams. The rendering of the Fade made his people mere shadows of their former selves -- how barren the inner world of dwarves must be with such a permanent and absolute disconnect from the Fade. At least his people have hope of restoration, but dwarves never had the connection to begin with. He could sunder the Veil a hundred times over and it would not change them. 

 

He cannot imagine it, only pity her for it, and casts about for a way to explain the Fade for someone with no point of reference. 

 

"The Fade reflects the world around it -- or more accurately, the memory of the world around it. When I dream in ancient ruins, the Fade around it reflects what the city used to look like in all its original splendor. I can walk down its streets and witness the everyday events of its people."

  
"So it's kind of like you . . . travel back in time?" 

 

"In a way," he says. "The Fade is not entirely accurate; rather it is influenced by memories and the emotions associated with those memories. When I slept in Ostagar, I saw both heroic Wardens lighting the beacon in a desperate attempt against the power mad villain who sentenced them and their king to death. But I also saw an army overwhelmed and a veteran commander refusing to let more soldiers die for a lost cause."

 

"The Fade lets you see multiple perspectives, then?" She looks slightly mystified. Still, he applauds her effort to understand. 

 

He nods, encouraged. "Yes, exactly -- including your own. It's as much influenced by your own experiences and expectations as it is with history. If you expect the Fade to be frightening and desolate, then that is the way it will look when you enter it."

 

"So what does it look like to you?" she asks, catching his gaze and holding it. 

 

"Home," he says simply. 

 

"I see," she says, and he catches a flash of that calculating look in her eye and he knows she is collecting this seemingly insignificant fact about him and storing it for further assessment.

 

Even in this second chance they have given each other, he feels as if she has never stopped weighing his every word, looking for cracks in his character, filing away every scrap of personal information about him, just in case. 

 

But he cannot fault her much for it, because he does the same. Every decision she makes, each way she responds to the situations that are thrown to her,  every question she asks of him, he tucks away, tiny brushstrokes that form an ever-evolving portrait of the Herald. 

 

Can two people find true friendship if they can never trust each other?

 

It's a question he finds himself more and more intrigued by. 

 

"Not that I don't enjoy these kinds of conversations, but I must admit I'm curious as to why you're so interested in the Fade. I haven't know dwarves to be all that curious about it."

 

"They're usually not," she says. "To me, at least, the Fade is kind of like the moon. It's big and mysterious.  I know it's there, but I can never reach it, so what's the point in wondering about it? I used to make fun of all the humans that got so freaked out by it."

 

"What changed?"

 

She waves the mark at him. " _This_  obviously. I went through the Fade. I might not remember a thing about it, but it's possible now. I need to know everything I can in case it happens again."

 

"Ah. So you're researching a potential weakness," he says with a twinge of disappoint that he can't explain. 

 

"Of course I am. But I'm also curious for my own sake. I mean, talking to you is like talking to someone who walks on the moon. Regularly." Her lips quirk up. "How could I not want to know everything?"

 

His own expression mirrors hers. "Indeed. I am always happy to satisfy your curiosity."

 

 

The flirting starts as an accident. The Herald has taken him up on his offer with more enthusiasm than he predicted. Their return to Haven brings new responsibilities and endless War Room meetings for Cadash, yet she always stops by his cabin with a new question or theory.

  
It is much like before, but this time he has more appreciation for her curiosity.

 

"How do you  _know_  so much about all this shit?" she says one morning. "I've met hundred of Templars and apostates and none of them have ever anything like this about the Fade. How do you know these things and they don't?"

 

No one else grew up in a world without a Veil, but Solas can't admit to that. He cobbles together pieces of truth to fashion an answer that sounds believable without revealing anything. But he's honest in the emotions of his words, even if the events did not happen exactly this way.

 

"No one else had quite the same learning experience that I did. There wasn't much for a boy to do in my village, especially one gifted with magic. But when I slept, the spirits of the Fade showed me glimpses of wonder I could never imagine. I treasured my dreams and the knowledge I gained from them."

 

"So you learned like the Avvar, except you went to the spirits instead of them coming to you."

 

"I've never thought of it like that, but yes. I suppose I did."

 

"I don't know what's considered more dangerous: having a spirit possess you or being that vulnerable in their domain. Aren't they supposed to be evil tempters or something?"

 

He shakes his head. "No more than brightly colored fruit is deliberately tempting you to eat it. I learned how to defend myself from more aggressive spirits and how to interact safely with the rest. But the Fade offers so many places to explore that it's always worth the risk, however minimal."

 

"Well you had to stop dreaming some of the time, or you wouldn't be here."

 

"True. Eventually I was unable to find new areas in the Fade."

 

The Herald cocks her head to the side, like a bird that has caught sight of something fascinating. "Why is that? Isn't the Fade infinite?"

 

"It is and isn't. Remember, the Fade reflects the world around us. If I want to see something new in the Fade I must travel to somewhere I've never been in reality. Secondly, the Fade is limited by one's imagination. To find interesting areas, one must first be interesting."

 

"I wouldn't expect that to be much of a problem for you," she says, and he finds himself far more flattered by this simple, matter-of-fact delivery than her previous, carefully calculated compliments.  

 

"Thank you," he says. "In truth, I have enjoyed exploring more of life to find more of the Fade."

 

"So you joined the Inquisition so you could find cool new places to explore in your dream world?" she asks flatly, but he has learned to recognize her teasing. 

 

"I joined the Inquisition because we are all in terrible danger. If our enemies destroyed the world, I would have no place to lay my head while dreaming of the Fade."

 

He delivers this with perfect sincerity and laughter bursts from the Herald. 

 

"That would be tragic. You might have the highest stakes out of the whole Inquisition."

 

Oh, if only she knew. He would almost laugh at the irony of her teasing if the uneasy pit in his gut did not grow daily.

 

"You and I may have different skills, but we develop them in much the same way," he points out. "You train yourself to flick a dagger to its target. The grace with which you move is but a pleasing side benefit. I must explore Thedas to develop my knowledge of the Fade, but I still enjoy the journey."

 

Something in the Herald's eyes light up like a burst of firework.

 

"Are you suggesting I'm graceful?" she asks, grinning widely.

 

He can't explain his next choice of words. Perhaps it is her clear delight, or the surprise that accompanies it, that spurns him on.

 

"No, I'm declaring it. It is not a matter for debate."

 

She ducks her head down, but not before he sees her blush-stained cheeks, a rare sight for her. 

 

"Not many people would call a dwarf graceful."

 

"Not many people have paid close attention to you then."

 

Too late he realizes the implication that he alone has paid special attention to her. But the Herald has the flush of a woman rarely complimented, so he doesn't regret it.

 

It becomes habit after that, these small compliments and harmless teases that further their camaraderie rather than encourage romantic intentions. Between the flirtations they volley back and forth, it almost becomes a game of one-upmanship.

 

A game he usually wins, as Cadash is easily flustered by him and Solas would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy making her blush.

 

 

"You know, the fact that you spent most of your life hanging out in the Fade explains a lot about you."

 

They are out gathering firewood for their first night on the road to Redcliffe, the shadows of the mountain growing rapidly with the sunset. Solas holds an ever growing collection of logs while Cadash fishes them out from under the snow and leaves. 

 

"What, exactly?"

 

Solas has been ridiculed and scoffed at and demonized more in the year after he's awoken than many decades of the rebellion combined. Even though Cadash has so far presented an unfazed attitude about the Fade that none of her Inquisition companions share, he awaits her answer with some hesitancy. 

 

"The fact that you're always alone," she answers. "I swear, if I didn't come bother you with fifty thousand Fade questions, you could go days without talking to anyone back at Haven. If I didn't know better, it would seem like you were stuck up or a pathetic loser.  But you have friends it sounds like -- they're just all in the Fade."

 

"Your questions are not a bother to me," he says. "But I suppose you're right. It has been a long time since I've been surrounded by so many living people, I'm not quite sure how to interact with them."

 

"Are spirit friends that different from real friends?"

 

Cadash holds out a log and Solas obediently bends down to accommodate her reach. 

 

"I have built many lasting friendships in my years in the Fade. Spirits of wisdom have happily shared with me ancient knowledge I would have never known. Spirits of purpose gave me the focus and drive to continue my search. Even wisps, curious and playful, have pointed out treasures I might have missed. They are no less real just because they live in the Fade."

 

He braces himself for an argument, the kind that always follows his opinions on emotional bonds with spirits. Even dwarves do not look kindly upon the denizens of the Fade, for demons are the only danger of the Fade that impacts them. 

 

"I've never heard of anyone having spirit friends. But usually all the Fade spirits I see are just demons, and they're not really interested in friendship."

 

"Anyone who can dream can befriend a spirit. Few ever try. My friends comforted me in my grief and shared my joy. Yet because they exist without form as we understand it, the Chantry declares that spirits are not truly people. Is Cassandra defined by her cheekbones and not her faith? Is Varric by his chest hair and not his wit?"

 

Cadash places a hand above his elbow. "I don't think you've noticed, but I'm not actually arguing with you about it -- except to say that I think I think Varric  _wants_ to be defined by his chest hair, the way he shows it off so damn much, even in the middle of all this snow. But if you say that spirits are real just like other people, then okay."

 

Solas can only stare, stunned,  as she spots a fallen limb and begins breaking pieces off for their pile. 

 

"You can accept an idea that goes against centuries of Chantry teachings and ingrained cultural warnings just from a word from me?"

 

"I'm a dwarf, Solas. I know fuck-all about the Fade. You're the one with decades of experience -- If you think spirits are people then I believe you. Besides, the Chantry is a giant asshole about a lot of things; I try not to pay too much attention to them. I'm just disappointed I won't be able to experience it for myself."

 

"I -- I'm not used to having my ideas so . . . easily accepted." Or accepted at all. 

 

"I will say this though." She brandishes a stick at him. "If you would get your head out of the Fade's ass for five minutes, I think you would be surprised at the amount of flesh-and-blood friends you could have here in boring ol' Thedas."

 

Even in the rapidly dimming light he cannot hide his skeptical expression. Cadash rolls her eyes.

 

"I'm not saying you should go have tea with Vivian or get a beer with Sera. But there are other people that would welcome the opportunity to know you. Maybe you should think about giving them the same chances you expect other people to give spirits."

 

"That is something I will . . . give further thought to," he says, unsure of how to respond.

 

"Good. I think we're done here. If I had nads, I would have froze them off by now, so I can only imagine what you're going through."

 

She glances back down at his uncovered feet, her lips pursing in a thin line, but she offers no comment as they trek back to camp.

 

Warmth flickers in his gut, weak as candle flame, but growing stronger every day. 

 

 

The journey back to Haven brings with them an unwelcome tag-a-long -- Dorian Pavus, a self-obsessed peacock of a man with a disturbingly casual acceptance of slavery who received too much praise as a child. He and the Herald spend much of the journey together, bonded like pack-mates through whatever shared trauma their time-travel adventure brought them. Though he has not had much opportunity for close observation, something about the Herald seems off. 

 

She stares at him, long glances she only thinks are covert, her eyes heavy with something Solas cannot identify. It disappears, naturally, when her attention is called elsewhere, slipping away in the depths of her usual cheer as if it never existed. But Solas knows it's there.

 

She sits closer to Varric at the campfire, their knees touching, as he regales her with a tale of debauchery from his time with the Champion of Kirkwall. She fixes Solas's bowl of stew with an extra biscuit and serves it to him. She goes out of her way to bid Cassandra goodnight when the Seeker goes off to bed. 

 

And she stays with him by the fire during his watch, long after everyone else has gone to sleep, pensively staring into the flames. 

 

"Do you think it's still out there?" she asks him quietly. "The artifact that created the breach? Or do you think it was destroyed?"

 

Despite all logic to the contrary, the fear of discovery flashes through him, a lightning bolt to his gut. He stills, worried that her careful gaze would not miss the spasm of anxiety that flashed across his face. But she keeps her eyes on the flames, oblivious to his inner turmoil. 

 

"Why do you ask? Did you see something in your journey to the future?"  he asks.

 

"I saw death and ruin and no hope." She tosses a stick into the fire. "All because Corypheus got his hands on it. I want to know if he still has it and what that could mean for us."

 

Solas swallows, trying to calm his racing heart. Cadash has no reason to suspect him, but her instincts about him are uncanny, and he doesn't know what triggers them or how seriously she takes them. He must proceed very carefully.

 

"You survived, did you not? The artifact that created the breach is unlike anything ever seen in this age. I will not believe it destroyed until I see the shattered fragments with my own eyes."

 

"I wonder how old it is," she says. "How the hell did he even _get_ something like that?"

 

"How has Corypheus done anything? We don't even know what he is, much less how he accumulated his power or resources. Our return to Haven must be focused on acquiring as much information as possible on our enemy."

 

"I know. I just . . . hate the not-knowing," she says. "What is this artifact? Where did it come from? What all can it do? I'm a dwarf. I don't understand magic. I don't understand how a metal ball can rip the sky open and ruin the world. I don't understand what the hell it did to me. I don't know how fight this . . . whatever the fuck he is. It is freaking me out!"

 

"You have your own resources," Solas says, "and they grow daily. You will not always be in the shadow of ignorance. Have patience and courage."

 

The sudden desire to offer her a comforting clap on the shoulder grips him. He clenches his fingers and keeps his hand firmly at his side, embarrassed at himself. Where did that come from?

 

She gives him a wan smile, its natural brilliance stolen by worry. "Thanks, Solas. I don't know what I'd do without you."

 

_Live a long, pain-free life_  he thinks. Instead he merely bows his head. 

 

"I am happy to serve, Herald."

 

  
After much observation, Solas has finally discovered the truth of Shay Cadash: that every part of her is genuine, even the parts that conflict with each other. She is both jaded and optimistic, guileless and cunning, cocky and lost; an outcast that trusts against her better judgement, who values her connections with others beyond the gain for which she has cultivated them. 

 

It shames him. Deeply. His stubborn belief in her inadequacy blinded him. He looked but saw only what would comfort him and ignored the truth: that he inflicted an unimaginable cruelty to someone completely undeserving of it. 

  
And now she’s dead, her body buried under so much rubble that she will never receive a proper funeral, and Solas has only himself to blame. Every step he takes further into the mountains sinks him lower in both snow and his own self-loathing. Her death complicates everything, brings his plan to potential ruin, but he is too numb from despair to care.

 

He sees her face every time he closes his eyes.

 

This is absurd.  Shay Cadash was dead the moment she received his mark; it just happened sooner than he anticipated. All of modern Thedas will be his collateral damage when the Veil drops, she is but a drop in the ocean.

 

His mind shouts anger, but his heart whispers guilt. He left her behind to die for his mistake. Even though she insisted on the plan herself, it stings of cowardice to have abandoned her. He should have stayed, given her support, healed her. He should have done something, instead of acting the part of a helpless,  _pathetic_ –

 

“The Herald! It’s the Herald! She’s alive!”

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone for giving this fic a chance because I know this is such a rare pair it's like a unicorn. You are all amazing!

The worst part about being an atheist is that Solas has no higher power to pray to as the Herald lies limp in her bedroll. Neither does he have gods to thank for finding her staggering in the snow after what should have been certain death. He can only watch from afar, pacing on the edge of camp as Mother Giselle tends to her. 

Perhaps it's better that Shay hasn't woken yet. Solas doesn't know if he can face her or what the bone-deep relief of seeing her alive infers. 

A soft melody distracts him from his self-recriminations. Mother Giselle's gentle singing seems to be the only thing to stop Cassandra and the others from arguing. The song swells as others in the camp join in, uniting them once again and renewing their faith in the Herald. It is both uplifting and unnerving to see such passionate faith so blindly misplaced. 

But he can't deny the boost in morale that comes after, the joviality lasting long into the night. As he picks his way through the camp for a place to rest his head, he feels a soft touch at his shoulder. 

Mother Giselle stands beside him.

"Could you check on the Herald?" she asks him. "I worry that her injuries pain her too much for sleep."

Broken ribs. Frostbite. Hypothermia. His magic at full power could banish these with a thought, but as of now it took the combined efforts of himself and Dorian to stem her wounds, and even then they could not fix them entirely. 

"Of course." He ignores another stab of guilt and heads to her tent.

The Herald lies shivering under a thick blanket, fingers drawing patterns in the dirt beside her. She smears the picture with her hand when she hears his footsteps and looks up at him with haunted eyes, her braided knots lying limply over her shoulder. 

"You should be sleeping," he murmurs, crouching next to her. "Are you in pain?"

She snorts and her lips curl into an ironic smile. "Life is pain, Solas. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling you something."

The words roll off her tongue in steady cadence, an idiom well-worn in her memory. But the message ill-fits her like someone else's clothing.

"Such a belief is at odds with how often you smile," he says. 

"My father used to say it all the time. He got it from a book, I think, or a play. It stuck with him. I used to reject the idea of it when I was younger, but I'm rethinking my stance."

"Oh?"

She fiddles with a thread on her blanket, her fingers pink with freshly healed frostbite. 

"I'm starting to think that I'd rather be pleasantly surprised than disappointed. Life can't disappoint you if you expect a certain level of shittiness."

"I can't say I disagree with that, but it's a jaded sentiment for someone so young."

Shay rolls her eyes. "I'm twenty-six, Solas. I'm hardly young."

A snort escapes him before he can stop it, though judging from her side-eyed glare, she definitely noticed it. 

"You did not answer my question," he says. "Are your injuries keeping you from sleep?"

"Not really. Though I don't think it matters at this point if they did."

He tilts his head to the side. "Does something trouble you?"

For a long moment she says nothing, and he fears he has overstepped, that their friendship cannot handle much beyond battle and mirth. Or worse, that she somehow can guess his complicity in her injuries and resents him for it. 

Then she heaves a deep, hopeless sigh. "I just don't know what we're going to do. We fought so hard and we still lost everything. We have no supplies, no shelter, no medicine for the wounded, and limited magic. So many good people died back there and for what? So the rest of us can wander around until we starve or freeze to death? Personally, my money is on bears. You know how much they love me."

It shocks him, the despair and grim acceptance that replaced her joy and easy confidence. A lack of rest and the lingering remnant of her injuries no doubt aggravate her anxiety, though she isn't wrong about the dire situation they've found themselves in. Lucky for her, she has allied herself with his two thousand years' experience. Solas takes pride in his ability to fix this problem at least. 

"Things are not so dire as they seem," he tells her. "I have explored the Fade for shelter since we left, and I have found something suitable just roughly a week’s journey from here."

"What?" The Herald struggles to sit up, and he gently pushes her back down by her shoulders. "Why haven't you said anything?"

"I was going to wait until you were ready for travel. Which you won't be, if you don't sleep. I can help you with that, if you'll permit it."

"What is this shelter like?" she asks. "How old is it? What state is it in? Who owns it?"

"All questions I will happily answer in the morning. Would you like my help or not?"

"Is this magic help?" Shay sounds hesitant.

"Yes," he says, studying her. "Are you afraid?"

She gives him a look of deep disgust. "No, I'm not afraid of magic. I'm a dwarf. I'm just worried that it won't work on me. But knock yourself out -- or me, actually."

Solas smiles inwardly. If Shay had appeared straight out of Orzammar, and if he hadn't been practicing god-like magic for two thousand years, she might have something to worry about.

First, he casts a spell to keep her blanket heated, then he takes one of her hands in his (so small the tips of her fingers barely reach the middle of his), focusing healing magic on her ribs, legs, and extremities.

She watches his work, the soft light of his magic highlighting her mystified gaze. 

"How do you think your injuries were healed thus far?" he asks, sitting back.

"Adding to my debt, I see," she whispers with a smile, already starting to drift off. "Can't get enough of me, is that it?"

"I'm a greedy man, Herald."

She laughs so softly he can barely hear her and then she is gone. He gazes upon her unwrinkled brow. The weight of his relief does not bode well for him, but it's a concern he sets aside for another time. 

"Does she sleep?" 

Cassandra's tall silhouette hovers around the entrance to the tent. Firelight glints against the sword that still hangs by her side. Though she has not put it into words, the Seeker is not a woman who runs from a fight, and it pained her just as greatly as it did him to leave the Herald behind. 

"Yes. I have eased her pains for now," he replies. 

"I had some elfroot to help her." A small pouch dangles from her other hand and her fingers fidget with the string.  "I didn't know you were already here."

He cannot stop the fondness that wells up at the thought of Cassandra scouring the surrounding area in the dark for such a thing, perhaps as a way to cool her head after nearly taking off Cullen's in their argument.

"That will make an excellent tea for the Herald in the morning," he says. "Thank you."

Cassandra sets down the pouch on a crate beside him. "You're a good friend, Solas."

The words feel like a slap in the face. 

"A good friend would not have left her behind."

The Seeker gazes at him for a long moment, the look on her face an echo of the bitterness in his chest. 

"It was not an easy choice for me either," she says. She hesitates for a moment before clapping a hand on his shoulder. "But we cannot change what has already happened, only let it influence our choices in the future. No one will ever be left behind again, I can promise you that. "

Cadash's words from their journey to Redcliffe echo in his mind. 

_If you would get your head out of the Fade's ass for five minutes, I think you would be surprised at the amount of flesh-and-blood friends you could have here in boring ol' Thedas._

If he had the luxury to make flesh and blood friends within the Inquisition, Cassandra would be a fine candidate, despite their rough beginnings. He respects her humility, her resolve, the way her faith drives her to protect the weak rather than profit from them.

But he does not have that luxury.

"Thank you," he tells her. 

She inclines her head. "Goodnight, Solas."

"Goodnight, Seeker."

 

He stays that night, back resting against one of the support poles of the tent, just in case the Herald's injuries flare up again or a fever sets in. He sleeps only intermittently, dozing off here and there but never fully relaxed enough to let himself into the Fade. The Herald stirs a few hours later, eyes darting around the tent in confusion before landing on Solas and relaxing.

"What time is it?" she asks, fighting a yawn. 

"Nearly dawn," he replies. "How do you feel?"

The Herald slowly sits up in her bedroll, her braids in snarled knots down her back. 

"Stiff and a little sore, which is a hell of a lot better than being dead."

"I'm glad you're in better spirits."

Her head cocks a little to the side, and that knowing glint is in her gaze, the one that makes him feel so utterly transparent.

"But you're not. Something's wrong. What is it?"

How best to explain the orb? It weighed on him all night as he watched her sleep: what information he shares and what he keeps for himself and how to justify knowing that knowledge without triggering her suspicions.

"We sit at a crossroads, Herald," he says softly. "This Inquisition will either stand united against all differences or we will allow those differences to tear ourselves apart."

"Are you worried that my war council was arguing earlier? We've all gone through a devastating loss -- emotions are going to run high for a while but that doesn't mean we'll start turning on each other."

"We very well could, depending on how others react to the information I received."

Cadash gives him a wary look. " . . . and what information is that?"

"The orb that Corypheus carried, the power that he used against you . . . it is elvhen." His voice barely carries above a whisper. "Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the destruction of the Conclave. I do not know how Corypheus managed to survive it himself."

Immediately she barrages him with questions, leaning close to him, her eye on the tent flap. "What is the orb? What do you know about it?  _How_  do you know about it?"

"I investigated the Fade, using all my resources to find old memories of even older magic. The orbs were foci, used to channel ancient magics. Corypheus may think it Tevinter, but his empire's magic was built upon the bones of my people."

Though the thought still horrifies him, right now he is grateful for the Herald's lack of connection to the Fade. For any other, his "I learned it from the Fade" excuse would not be as reliable. 

"You're worried everyone is going to blame the elves," the Herald says, catching on immediately. "Which is stupid; it's not like an ancient elf just walked up to Corypheus and handed it to him."

Solas nearly chokes on his own breath. 

"But it's not an unfounded fear," she continues, "Elves are the Chantry's favorite target."

"History would agree with you," he says, recovering. "This information risks our entire alliance."

"It won't if we're the only ones who know about it," she says. "Have you told anyone else?"

"No, but a secret of this magnitude would compromise the people's faith in you if the information was ever revealed another way."

"Well then they'd get more pissed with me instead of the elves, so mission accomplished."

She's so cavalier, so unburdened by such a prospect. She must not understand the magnitude of her suggestion. "You would risk undermining your own reputation just to keep a secret for the benefit of a people you have nothing to do with?"

She shrugs. "I'm a Carta Dwarf -- I was born with a bad reputation. Besides, it's not that much of a risk, Solas. The only people who know it's not Tevinter are you and me. Not even Corypheus knows what the hell he's got. So all we have to do is sit back and let him run his mouth about Tevinter magic and keep  _our_  mouths shut. I'm a great liar and you're the ultimate secret-keeper, so how hard can it be?"

"And if the truth comes out somehow regardless?" 

"Then I'll lie and say I didn't know. Hopefully by then the Inquisition will have grown to the point where it doesn't matter. And if it does, I'm the only one with the mark, so everyone has to deal with me whether they like me or not."

Something swells within his chest -- fondness, gratitude, relief. It leaves him speechless for a moment, as she sorts through the tangled knot of her braids, completely oblivious.

"Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow," he says. 

And Skyhold will give her all of that and more. 

 

The journey is not easy, and they set a slow pace for the many injured, but the Herald refuses to be left behind with them. She pushes herself to keep pace with Solas near the front of the caravan, despite her own recovering injuries. 

(Though occasionally she will ride atop Bull's shoulders if she gets tired and wave at him, gleeful as a child.)

He marvels at the amount of ferocity such a small form contains. Her injuries could have killed someone twice her size, and yet not only did she survive, she staggered through miles of snow to make it to camp. And now she climbs mountains with bruised ribs and tender fingers, outpacing many of her comrades.  She even has the stamina and accuracy to hit the back of his head with a snowball (but not the speed to dodge his counter attack).

Should they become enemies -- not so much a possibility as an absolute certainty -- he endeavors never to underestimate her.

 

The first sight of Skyhold stops her literally in her tracks in open-mouthed awe. They have just crested the hill, the thick fir trees parting enough to give her a glimpse of the fortress perched atop the tallest mountain peak. 

"See that structure up there?" He points to it, guiding her eyes to the towers of the fortress perched on the tallest mountain peak. "I believe that is our destination."

" _That?_ " Her lips gape like a fish desperate for water. "That's not -- Solas, that's -- _no._ "

"We should mark this occasion in the Inquisition records -- Shay Cadash is speechless."

"When you said you found something in the Fade, I was expecting, like,  _ruins_  or something. This is a fucking castle."

"It's a fortress," corrects Solas. "And it has been abandoned for a long time, so your expectations aren't so far from the truth as you might think."

Her curiosity  _burns_  for Skyhold, peppering him with question after question. Solas has to restrict himself to vague answers with little detail to fight the temptation to tell her everything. Though it will still take at least two days for the entire caravan to get up the mountain, the Herald takes both him and a small team with her to scout the place out a day ahead of time.

Her open-mouthed gaze only grows more pronounced as they step through the rotted drawbridge for the first time and enter the courtyard. 

Much of the architecture has changed and the place has fallen into disrepair, but Solas is immediately at home. His fingers trail over the walls, pulling at the remnants of his energies. The Veil is strong here in its birthplace, but Solas can feel the Fade pulsing just on the other side.

The Herald dashes off to explore, the entreaties of both Cassandra and Cullen to be wary of instability ringing out uselessly behind her. He spots the red flame of her hair pop up every now and then on the battlements, in and out of doorways, coming up stairs. Cullen inspects the battlements' vantage points while Cassandra investigates the main hall. Solas slips away unseen downstairs to check the state of his hidden library before claiming a place for himself in the atrium.

"You!"

Her shout echoes in the library above him some hours later. He looks up from his inspection of the walls (there are many deep holes in the plaster that need filling) to see her hanging over the railing so far he fears she might topple over.

"Good evening, Herald. Did you enjoy your exploration?"

Instead of answering him, she slips off from her perch, and he hears the patter of her footsteps down the attached stair.

"You bastard," she cries, bursting into the room and headed straight for him. “You magnificent, _glorious_  bastard! This place is  _huge_. It's like something from a fairy tale. It makes Haven look like a backwoods hell-shack!"

"Haven _was_ a backwoods hell-shack." He can't keep the smirk from his face. Her many expletives mean she must be very pleased indeed. "But this place is going to need quite a lot of work before it can be truly suitable for us. Not to mention that it was built for function rather than aesthetic beauty --"

"Shut up, Solas. It's so fucking gorgeous, I could kiss you!"

She stands so close to him that she very well could if only she were a foot taller, but Solas doesn't think himself in danger of it. "If that's all it took, we should have left Haven sooner."

The Herald laughs and he can practically taste her exuberance -- fizzy, like champagne -- and the rosy glow it casts on her freckled cheeks.

"We were screwed, Solas. We were so fucking screwed, and this place is going to save us. And it's all because of you."

A part of him grows cold at her praise, her blind faith in him even though she still knows so very little about him. He does not deserve it, and yet he can't help the other part of him that basks in it. 

"Only if you put it to good use," he says. "Though I have no doubt that you will."

"Thank you, Solas."

She reaches out to touch him and then thinks better of it, stashing her hand back at her side. His eyes dart to it curiously, wondering what she would have done that so was embarrassing enough to rethink it. 

"You know, most men propose first, before they gift a woman with a house," she jokes, no doubt covering up her awkwardness.

"I am not most men, Herald," he says smoothly.

"You sure as hell aren't."

 

In less than a week, Skyhold transforms from corroded abandonment to a bustling hive of constant activity. Josephine sends letters out to various allies, merchants, and workers before she even has a desk, and people of all races flock to the fortress. The main hallway turns into a maze of scaffolding, the noise of workers pounding throughout the night. 

 

The ability to lift a sword as tall as she alone would be enough to imply Andraste's guidance (though Cassandra stands close enough to catch Cadash should she topple over). And her speech, quiet and firm and fiercely determined, swayed what little doubt was left among the people.

"Your leader!" Cullen shouts. "Your Herald. Your  _Inquisitor!"_

The raucous cheering that follows would reassure any doubtful heart. A tad bit over-dramatic for Solas' tastes, but he is glad that Cadash gets the loyalty she so feared she would never gain. She has come a long way from the jail cell and she earned this praise.

Which is why finding the new Inquisitor huddled in a corner of the battlement, far away from prying eyes and shaking, comes at a such a shock.

Her face, pressed against her knees, jerks up at the sound of his footsteps. 

"Don't mind me," she says with a forced cheer borderlining on hysteria. "I'm just having a mild panic attack, no big deal. Go on your merry way, I'll be fine."

"Inquisitor --"

" _Don't_ ," she snaps, like the snarl of a cornered animal. "Don't call me that. Not right now."

She buries her face back against her knees, unable to face him.

If he had put the pieces together, he would have seen this coming: how quickly she buried her own weakness under smiles and jokes, the discomfort that flitted across her face at any mention of her responsibilities, her youth and inexperience with the world. 

Irritated at his own lack of awareness, Solas kneels down in front of her, studying her trembling hands, knuckles white in their grip across her knees, and her erratic, staccato breaths. 

"Cadash," he murmurs. "Talk to me."

"I can't do this, Solas," she hisses. "I'm not ready. I'm not _qualified_. I'm just a stupid Carta thug, I don't know anything about magic or the Fade or ancient, mystical cities, and I don't give a _shit_ about Andraste! I’m a big fat fake, and I've never led anything before in my life! And all those people down there expect me to figure it out and  _I don't know what to do_. Okay? I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know –"

"Shay!"

He grips her shoulders and gives her a firm shake. He senses her heart pounding wildly in her veins and knows she is moments away from a complete breakdown. 

"Look at me," he commands, and she lifts her eyes back to him, pupils wide, face ashen. "Look into my eyes."

Her gaze clings to him like raft in a storm. He takes one her hands in to his own.

"Good. Now look past me and relax. Focus on your surroundings. Feel the cold of the stone, the rough calluses of my hand. Listen to song of the wind, how it rustles the fabric of our clothes.” He presses their hands against his chest. “Match your breathing to mine."

The tightness of her grip lessens by degrees, her breathing evens out. 

"You are not a stupid Carta thug," he tells her. "And for someone who has never led before, you've been doing a phenomenal job. The ceremony was to make official what has always been unofficial. Nothing has changed."

"I'm going to disappoint them," she whispers. A tear leaks from the corner of her eye, and he risks impropriety to swipe it away. "I'm going to screw something up and they are all going to hate me."

"No," he says simply. "You may have a diverse group, and every decision you make will not be met with unanimous agreement. But their faith will not waver because of a difference in opinion. And you are not doing this alone. Whatever gaps you have in knowledge or experience, myself and the others will make up for it. We are always here to guide you."

Shay leans her head back against the stone wall behind her, closing her eyes and breathing deep. In a few moments she composes herself enough to give him a weak smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Thank you. You do so much for me, Solas. I promise I’ll get my shit together and you won’t have to fix me anymore.”

"The Breach, Corypheus, the Inquisition; we are all in uncharted territory here. It's only natural to be afraid. It does not make you weak,  _Inquisitor,_ and I will not hear you say another unkind word about yourself."

He gives her a stern look, and she snorts softly in laughter. 

"How did you even know I was up here?" she asks.

Someone told him, though the memory of who, exactly, slips from him like a minnow from a net. 

"Call it a hunch," he says instead.

Solas has his suspicions, however, and he leaves the Inquisitor to investigate.

 

“This thing is not a stray puppy you can turn into a pet. It has no business being here.”

Solas resists the urge to grind his teeth at Madame De Fer’s dismissive tone. She reminds him too much of what the Evanuris turned into – so comfortable with the status quo that she refuses to see the suffering it inspires, so firm in her own beliefs that she will not even entertain the thought of a second opinion. If only she had a fraction of the power her arrogance believes her to possess.

“Wouldn’t you say the same of an apostate?” he asks, more for Cassandra’s benefit than any hope of swaying the Court Enchanter.

Neither woman takes the bait, distracted by Cadash’s sudden appearance in the yard, her usual cheery demeanor affixed flawlessly in place barely ten minutes after her breakdown. She is as accomplished at masks as he, it seems.

She takes in what must be the very unusual sight of Solas and Madame De Fer conversing voluntarily outside of travel with hesitation.

“What’s going on?” she asks, her cheerful tone belying the calculating look in her eye.

Cassandra immediately turns to her.

“Inquisitor, I had wondered if Cole was a mage, given his unusual abilities.”

“What kind of unusual abilities?”

Solas steps in immediately before Madame De Fer can twist things around to suit her fear mongering. “He can cause people to forget him, even failing to notice him entirely.”

The Inquisitor blinks at him. “Mages can’t do those things?”

“No. It seems that Cole is a spirit.”

“It is a _demon_ ,” Madame De Fer says, as if Solas is a slow and stupid pupil.

“If you prefer,” he says easily, “although the truth is somewhat more complex.”

“Can we stop bickering for two seconds and get to the point?” Cadash asks. “No everyone grew up with a magical education, fancy or otherwise. If Cole’s not a mage and he’s not a demon, then what exactly are we dealing with?”

She looks to him for explanation rather than Madame De Fer. Solas is gracious enough to hide his smirk while he launches into an explanation.

“Demons normally enter this world by possessing something. In their true form, they look bizarre. Monstrous.”

“Cole doesn’t look like a monster; he looks like a kid. Is he possessing someone?”

“No,” Solas says firmly. “He possesses nothing and no one, and yet he appears human in all aspects.”

“How is that possible? I thought demons only left the Fade through possession or summoning.”

“Normally that’s true,” says Solas. “But Cole has willfully manifested human form without possessing someone.”

“What about the demons from the Breach?” she asks. “They just showed up without possessing anyone. Is Cole like that?”

An excellent question. Solas is proud of how she is expanding and applying knowledge of the Fade.

“Those demons were pulled through the tear in the Veil against their will,” he explains. “This world has driven them mad. Cole, on the other hand, predates the Breach. From what we can tell, he has lived here for months, perhaps even years.”

“So, you’re basically telling me that you don’t know what Cole is, just what he’s not.”

Solas nods. “Cole is unique, Inquisitor. More than that, he wishes to help. I suggest you allow him do so.”

Madame De Fer scoffs beside him. “You may call him whatever you like, but it is still a threat. _Especially_ because we know so little about him.”

“How about we let Cole speak for himself,” says Cadash. “Where did he go?”

“If none of us remember him, he could be anywhere,” says Cassandra.

Solas feels a strange presence behind him, his senses suddenly opening up as if he knocked water from his ear. Cole’s distinctive hat bobs in between the wounded, his footsteps silent as a cat’s. Cadash follows his gaze and sets off, leaving him and the two other women to pretend as if they aren’t eavesdropping.

Both he and Madame De Fer already know the Inquisitor’s conclusion as they watch her watch Cole interact with the dying. Cadash never turns down an ally, no matter how strange to her they are at first. The fact that an elvhen apostate, an Orelsian court enchanter, and the Right Hand of the Divine can stand together and argue in the first place proves that.

“That girl is hopeless,” Madame De Fer sighs.

“Personally, I think she shows a wisdom beyond her years.”

Madame De Fer would think it too vulgar to roll her eyes at him, but she looks as if she dearly wishes to. “You would. Just do us all a favor and never drop your guard.”

With that she turns and leaves before she loses the last word. Cassandra lingers beside him.

"I will not say I am comfortable with this turn of events," she says. "But I trust the Inquisitor’s judgement . . . as I trust yours. You have never led us astray, Solas."

He looks at her, surprised and oddly touched. "Thank you, Seeker."

Cassandra nods at him before leaving. 

When Cadash rejoins him, she gives him a rather smug smile.

“I have my own spirit friend now,” she says. “You’re not special anymore.”

“I never said I was special,” he says, a smile tugging at his mouth.

“You think it all the time. I don’t need special mind powers like Cole’s to figure that one out.”

If she had any idea of just how much of Solas she has already figured out . . . But her remark also reminds him to have his own meeting with Cole. The spirit, well-intentioned as he may be, has a habit of speaking aloud the secrets of those around him, and Solas does not have the power to stop him.

 

Every night in the Fade he can feel the Anchor, a bright singularity that shines in the edge of his awareness. At first, he tried ignoring it, too angry with himself to face the fact that it belonged to another out of his own carelessness. After the fall of Haven, he looked for it as reassurance that the Herald slept well enough to journey the next day. 

Now that everyone has settled in and no longer sleep in tents, an idea dawns on him, a reckless experiment that will no doubt prove fascinating. Shaping the Fade into a perfect replica of Haven, he searches out the Anchor.

Then he tugs.

Shay stumbles into existence beside him, blinking in the fake sunlight glinting off the snow. He wonders how long it will take someone who has never dreamed to suspect this place.

"Solas?" she squints up at him for a moment and then her gaze darts around the scenery. "What the hell is this? Where are we? What's going on?"

Not long at all, it seems.

The fear that sharpens her voice makes him regret not giving her any warning. 

"You're dreaming," he reassures her. "It's alright. You're safe."

"I can't dream, demon. Pick a better lie."

As she speaks to him, her hand slowly reaches for the knives usually strapped to her back. He winks them from existence without a second thought. Coming up empty, fear flashes across her face for only a second before she curls her fingers into fists.

Ferocious indeed. 

Solas grabs one of her fists in his hand, so large he almost completely encases hers. His touch stills her immediately, so he takes her other hand in his as well. 

"It's me, Shay. It's Solas," he says softly. He thought she would be delighted to see the Fade and instead she's as wide-eyed as a startled horse.

"Solas doesn't call me by name," she says, uncertain. "No matter how many times I ask."

"This is not reality, and there's no one else here but you. I do not need to cling so tightly to formalities."

She stares at him, assessing him for any sign of insincerity. He simply looks back, as to offer more assurances would come across as a false desperation for her to believe him. At last, she lets her breath out long and slow, a sigh of relief.

"That does sound like something Solas would say," she admits. "But how the hell did I get here? How come it hasn’t happened before?”

"I see your Anchor in the Fade every night. This time I simply followed it until I saw you," he lies. "Once I found you, I shaped the Fade to resemble Haven.”

Her eyes grow wide. "You can do that? Make the Fade look however you want?"

"It's a rare skill, but not unheard of, especially among my kind," he says.

"And . . . it's safe? For me to be here?"

"Of course. The Fade is filled with people's subconscious minds. Most just don't realize they're dreaming, and they never remember anything when they wake. Not to mention that I have _many_ years of experience doing this. I won’t allow any harm to come to you.”

"Oh." Shay looks around with new interest, her posture relaxing. "Wow. This is the Fade. The  _actual_  Fade."

"You talk as though you've never been here before."

"I don't remember the first time, and I don't really want to, so I'm not counting it." 

He bows and motions a hand towards the Chantry. "Would you like to explore?"

"Do bears want to eat me? Hell yeah. Let’s go!"

Ever the gentleman (and because the Fade lower his inhibitions considerably), he offers her his hand when they reach the steps, steep enough to give her some trouble without the use of a handrail. But she doesn't let go when they reach the top, and Solas finds he doesn't mind the soft grip of her fingers as he leads her around.

"Why here?" she asks, gaze flitting around like a butterfly, trying to take it all in.

"Once I saw you in the Fade, I knew you would panic, so I shaped it into a place that is familiar and important to you."

He also suspects that she might miss Haven, having defended it with her life only to see it obliterated with no chance of goodbye. That feeling is all too familiar to him.

She sticks her hand out to catch a snowflake. "I see snow, but I don't feel cold. Are you cold?"

"I could be if I wanted. But since you cannot shape the Fade, you are probably as warm or cool as you feel in your bed."

"Fascinating," she whispers.

They enter the Chantry, and he takes her downstairs to the cells. Shay gives him a skeptical look. "Really? All the Fade to explore and you bring me to the dungeon? That's not very romantic."

He smiles. "Patience, dear Inquisitor. Our exploration is hardly over."

"I'll hold you to that." She slips her hand from his and steps closer to the cell, no doubt piecing together her memories. 

"I slept surprisingly well after surviving a magical explosion," she says.

He had put her to sleep himself, both to study her and to help her gather the strength she needed to survive the Anchor.

"I watched over you as you slept, studying the Anchor."

He doesn't know why he admits this. Perhaps the nostalgia of this place, gone forever and yet perfectly preserved in front of him. Perhaps he wants to relive the moment if only to compare how much has changed between the two of them since then.

"That must have been boring."

"Quite the opposite. A magical mark of unknown origin tied to a unique breach in the Veil? It fascinated me."

It took longer to accept what had happened and plan accordingly than it did to ascertain the chain of events in the first place. But containing the magic in her palm, fighting against forces that wanted to consume her whole and disintegrate her like a dry twig in a bonfire -- that wiped out what little strength he had accumulated, and he still feels its loss, though he doesn't regret it. Not anymore.

"I searched the Fade. Ran every test I knew and found nothing. Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to execute me if I didn't produce results."

Lies. Lies that fall sickeningly easy from his lips, and he hates the way they trap him into a lesser version of himself.

"That's our Cassandra," she says dryly. "Don't worry, she threatened to execute me as well. And Varric, come to think of it. Perhaps that's her way to saying she likes you."

He chuckles at that. "Perhaps. She and I have come a long way since then. But at the time neither of us trusted the other, and I was ready to flee."

The Fade melts around them, and they transition from the dungeon to the daylight. Shay whips her head behind her, looking at the side door of the Chantry and up at him with raised eyebrows. 

"Did you just shape the Fade? Can you make it look like anything? Can you turn that fence into a dragon?"

"I could, but you wouldn't like it. Things can seem too real in the Fade at times."

"Killjoy," she says, looking mildly disappointed. "I'm glad, at least, that I wasn't the only one who thought of running away. Though the breach threatens  _all_  of Thedas, so I don't know where we would run to, exactly."

"It wasn't a good plan, was it?"

He snaps a twig from a nearby pine tree and hands it to her. When her fingers touch it, it transforms into tiny green butterflies that kiss her face before fading away. The look of sheer wonder in her eyes makes this entire experiment worthwhile. He never thought about it this way before, but Shay’s dwarven heritage makes her uniquely able to appreciate the Fade without ingrained cultural fears shaping her expectations. 

"I decided to try once more, though so far no ordinary magic could possibly affect it, and I had already failed once before. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee and then --"

He grasps her hand and thrusts it and the Anchor to the Fade Breach in the sky. The Anchor flares in response, part Fade manipulation, part subconscious memory. The Breach closes just as that first rift did in a riot of sparks and thunder.

She jerks back, breathing hard, and he gives her a moment of composure. This being her first time (that she remembers) Shay still takes everything here too literally, rather than accepting the Fade as a reflection of reality.

"It seems you hold the key to our salvation," he says, echoing his words from their first meeting. A shadow crosses her face for an instant before she smothers it. He tucks that away for later and continues. "You had sealed it with a gesture. And right then . . . I felt the whole world change."

His last few words carry a weight that surprises him. When his mark closed the Breach, even though he could no longer control it, his relief almost overwhelmed him. But having his mark on another meant he had to play with the Inquisition until he could fix his plan, and that put him into close contact with not only Shay, but Cassandra and Varric and the others, all who have challenged him in their own way.  

He knows he will not leave the Inquisition without feeling their mark on him, however much he denies it for now.

A snort of laughter interrupts his thoughts before they can turn grim. Shay bites her lip to keep from cracking up further, but mirth glitters in her eyes.

"That's funny to you?" he asks incredulously.

"I'm sorry," she says, laughter bursting from her like rain. "You just sound so cheesy, I feel like I'm in one of Varric's romances! Tell me, do you write poetry?"

He glowers at her, but in truth he isn't that angry. Laughter transforms her face into something warm and lovely, and he enjoys the sight after so many centuries of war and infighting. "You'll never find out now."

"You do! That is so like you. You always have a fancy way of saying things. Sometimes Varric scribbles down your comments in a journal, did you know that?"

Solas snorts at the idea but finds himself oddly flattered by it. 

After a moment Shay's laughter dies down and she looks out at the empty sky before them.

"You know, that was very sweet but definitely not how it happened."

"Perhaps not, but memory is unreliable and easily malleable. It's how it felt to me. I suppose it's different for you."

"You could say that." Shay's expression shifts to something more somber. "I remember being terrified out of my mind, surrounded by strangers, without anyone in my family for the first time in my life and confronted with crazy demons that I had only heard about in horror stories. And then this strange, ridiculously tall man grabs my hand like it belonged to him and shoves it at the rift and then starts babbling a bunch of magic mumbo jumbo I had no hope of understanding."

So concerned with his own complicity in the Breach, Solas never truly thought about how afraid Shay would have been in that moment. He remembers being flippant and teasing, a charming version of him that he tucked away after, as it hurt his socially awkward hermit image. 

"But it definitely changed my world too. Sometimes I wonder if it’s even possible for me to go back to my life after this is all over. Sometimes I wonder if I even want to. I just don’t know what else to do with myself.”

Solas has the chilling realization that her chances of surviving that long are slim. The Anchor cannot be restrained forever. He has bought her – at most – a couple of years. And even if she does survive the Anchor somehow when he recovers his orb, she will not survive what comes after.

His ability to make his peace with her suffering and untimely death shrinks with their every interaction. This growing attachment to her jeopardizes everything – more so than Corypheus and his power mad dreams could ever fathom.

What can he do? He can’t hate her – he’s already tried.

He can’t keep her at a safe distance because Shay destroys that distance by her very nature.

His views of the Fade and spirits that makes everyone else uncomfortable or afraid only inspire her curiosity. As a dwarf, she has no uncomfortable history with his elven heritage, and she doesn’t care or even acknowledge the fact that he cannot be categorized as Dalish or City or that his magic was not taught in a Circle. And no matter how formal he is – the only member of the Inquisition not to call her by name or nickname – Shay reciprocates with equal familiarity, as if they had known each other for years. 

But is it worth the risk to his plans and the damage to himself to embrace this strange friendship wholeheartedly? Does he really have a choice in the matter anymore?

“It’s futile to try to imagine the future when the present is so chaotic and unpredictable,” he tells her. “We can only live each day as it comes.”

Meaningless platitudes but that is all he can offer right now.

“You’re right. Until Corypheus gets taken out, we’re all on borrowed time anyway.” She lets out a deep sigh. “Can I tell you something?” She doesn’t give him time to answer before continuing. “It’s kind of embarrassing, but it’s been in my head for a while. I almost didn’t get the chance to say it to you.”

Solas looks down at her, intrigued. The Herald is rarely shy or hesitant about any of her thoughts or opinions.

“Remember when you hated me because you thought I was some kind of con artist who sucked up to everyone in exactly the way they wanted to be sucked up to?”

“ . . . Yes,” he says uneasily.

Does Shay still carry some lingering resentment from their fight? Or had she picked up on the ulterior motives of his apology and wanted to call him out on it? Though he originally had no intentions of forming a genuine friendship with Shay, he can’t deny the growing sincerity of it now.

“Well, you were absolutely right about me. I would have said anything, allied with anyone, if it kept me from getting executed. “

It comes from her like a confession, a secret. Her honesty surprises him, but not as much as her timing.

“That is a motivation I no longer find fault with,” he tells her, shame twisting inside his gut. “Nor would anyone else. It is not something you need to guilt you.”

“Yes, it is,” she says. “I tried like hell to get everyone around me to like me. That’s why you were so infuriating because I knew you were only pretending, just like me. Yet I had the gall to get mad at you for it. If you were a hypocrite, I was a bigger hypocrite.”

Solas holds back a snort. If only she knew. “You were angry with me because I was disrespectful and childish. It was well deserved.”

The Herald picks at her finger nails. “It doesn’t feel that way. And it’s been bothering me. I don’t think I’m the only one who was owed an apology that day.”

Solas stares at her. How can he tell her that his anger did not stem from her manipulations, but from fear, from the unexpected vulnerability caused by her unerring instincts? That he hated her because she unwittingly interfered with his plans for mass destruction and tempted him with what he believed was a hollow imitation of friendship?

“You owe me nothing, Shay Cadash,” he tells her firmly. “You made the best of your situation the only way you knew how. There is nothing to feel ashamed about.”

Indeed, the shame belongs to him alone.

But the intensity of her gaze sharpens.

“Listen, I never told you this, but I saw you in the future at Redcliffe. I won’t – I won’t go into detail about what the red lyrium did to you because it was bad. But I watched you die for me, to give me extra time. You and Varric and Cassandra. You all sacrificed yourselves without a second thought for me, and if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have made it.”

Dark clouds start to gather on the horizon, a reflection of a hurt she has kept well hidden, of the haunted look in her eyes.

"I . . . " Solas flounders for words.

She thinks him noble, that he sacrificed himself for her and the Inquisition, and not for a second chance at his own plans.

"I did what any of the other members would have done for you," he says hesitantly.

“I know that. I know it was all for the good of Thedas. But I can’t – I can’t get that image out of my head at night.”

Her voice cracks and it’s almost tangible, the feeling of his reservations crumbling in the face of it. He reaches for her without thinking and she throws her arms around his middle, face buried in his chest. For a moment he stiffens – no one has touched him this way in over a thousand years. Then slowly he places his hands gingerly on her back.

She is so _small._ Small and insignificant and one of millions in this horrifying world he created, and she shouldn't matter to him as anything more than as a means to an end. And yet he cannot let go. The great, fearsome Dread Wolf reduced to a weak, bitterly lonely old fool unable to resist one dwarf's overtures of friendship. How his younger self would have derided him!

She is the first to pull away, her cheeks red.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean -- I know you . . . like your space," she says, and he thinks back to the aborted movement of her hand in the atrium.

"You did nothing offensive," he assures her.

“I just want you to know that our friendship is weird, but it’s real. You've done so much for me and the Inquisition. I don't think many people notice, but I do. I appreciate everything. If you ever need me for anything, you will always have my help.”

He doesn't want acknowledgement because it draws attention, but it and her gratitude feed him like a drug after _so_ long hearing his name and his deeds twisted into something dark and terrible and nothing like what he intended.

"Thank  _you_ ," he finds himself saying. "I know I'm difficult and that friendships do not come easily for me. I appreciate you making the effort to understand me when so few have."

"Everyone deserves to be understood, Solas, even if you don't agree with them."

To think a dwarf would show him more acceptance than his own people.

"If only more thought like you," he says, half to himself.

For a moment they just look at one another, not in suspicion, not searching for lies or weakness. A look of mutual acknowledgement shared between two . . . friends.  

Yes. She is his friend now. The damage is done and irreversible.

Shay looks away over to the permanent sunrise over the horizon.

"Well, I think I've reached my threshold for emotional mush," she says, lightly. "How about you?"

"It has been so long since I've experienced . . . emotional mush I'm not quite sure what my threshold is anymore," he admits.

"At least this is all fake, so I can't get too embarrassed about it in the real world.”

The real world. To him the Fade feels more real that the "real world." However, the sun will probably rise soon back at Skyhold.

"That is a matter for debate," he says, "probably best discussed after you . . . wake up."

He pushes the Anchor -- and her with it -- from the Fade.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also got a Solavellan modern Dear Daddy Long Legs AU if anyone wants something to to tide them over until the next update!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Ahshesgone for beta reading!

“What the hell are these?”

Cole looks down at the Inquisitor, his hat shielding his expression. “They’re knives. They cut things.”

Before the Inquisitor’s trip to Crestwood, she puts Cole through rigorous inspection. Nothing escapes her scrutiny, not even his socks (or lack thereof). But the knives seem to offend her the most.

“Butter, maybe. Not much else. Where the hell did you even get these?”

“I found them.”

“In the garbage? In a ditch?”

“In the kitchen. They were lonely.” Cole sounds rather crestfallen. “Is something wrong with them?”

“Yes, they’re shitty knives.” The Inquisitor links her arm through his and gives him one of her sunny smiles. “But don’t worry because Auntie Shay is going to take you down to the merchants and spoil you rotten.”

She drags Cole through the courtyard before the spirit can voice any protest. All around them Skyhold bustles with preparations for the newest venture towards Crestwood. For once, Solas will not be joining them. He has his own goal of studying the many tomes he’s ordered for valuable scraps of information, ostensibly on the Fade and secretly for his own devices.

Instead, Vivienne will join the party as the sole mage companion. Solas suspects, with the rumors of undead and demons spawning from the carcass of Old Crestwood, that this is Shay’s revenge against some rather unkind comments about Cole, who is also accompanying them along with Varric.

“Would you like a souvenir for when I get back?” Shay asks him the morning she leaves. She sits perched on his desk, a plate of scones balanced in her lap. “A thumb bone? Some demon . . . goop? Is there an official word for that crap?”

“Essence,” he supplies. “Though goop is probably a more fitting term. And no, I have all that I require here. I only wish that you return safely.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Worried about me going without you?”

“You have picked interesting companions for this journey,” he says carefully.

Shay’s eyes glance upward for a moment and then she leans closer to him. “I just thought that with Cole being a permanent member of our group, anyone who has issues should . . . have an opportunity to get over them. Not to mention certain people have spent far too long cooped up in an ivory tower, and they should see the world and all its beauty and . . . goop.”

Solas bends his head down as if they are sharing an illicit secret – and in a way they are. “Once again I admire such wisdom and compassion at such a young age.”

At this distance he can see the smile glittering in her eyes. “Once again, you sound like someone’s grandfather.”

She pats him on the shoulder and then hops off his desk. “Try not to kill Dorian while I’m gone, okay? I’m rather attached to him.”

“Dorian should suffer no ill effects should he mind his own business,” Solas replies, making sure his voice echoes up to the library. “ _Dareth Shiral,_ Inquisitor.”

She pauses at the doorway. “What does that mean?”

“A safe journey. A wish for luck.”

She smiles, slow and warm. “Thanks. And don’t worry, I’ll bring back something nice just for you.”

  


Solas watches her caravan leave from the battlement just outside his atrium, a strange feeling settling in his chest like fog. It follows him for the next three days, as he goes about his books and his notes and the nightly exploration of his library in the Fade. A restlessness. A lack of focus. And something heavy in his ribs.

It hits him the third night, as sleep evades him, that it’s loneliness. He has been alone for so long that he has forgotten what it’s like to miss someone. But that’s the feeling squatting unwelcome in his heart – he misses Shay. He misses someone to talk to, who listens to him without judgment. And though he had welcomed the chance to avoid arduous travel and battle and sleeping in tents, he thinks he may have made a mistake. For he realizes that no one else in the Inquisition will speak to him without Shay as the catalyst.

If he feels this disconcerted by three days of her absence, how will he cope with her destruction once he rips down the Veil?

What has he done to himself?

That third night he looks up at the pale moonlight upon his blank walls and forms a welcome distraction.

  


Plaster is in great abundance, but paint no so much. Still, Josephine is more than happy, albeit surprised, to order him the supplies he needs.

“I didn’t know you were an artist,” she says. “Is paint your preferred medium?”

He nods. “The Fade has taught me the art of ancient elven frescoes. I had hoped to surprise the Inquisitor with one when she returns.”

Josephine smiles, and she looks like a princess from a fairy tale. “Oh, that is so sweet! If you wouldn’t mind, I would also like to take a look when you’re finished. I used to paint when I was younger. I loved watercolors.”

Solas bows his head. “It would be my honor.”

Though his interactions with the diplomat are few and far between, Josephine Montiliyet has always displayed a genuine kindness that Solas wished he saw in more humans.

It’s just the same that his paints will take a week to arrive. He has to sketch out and plan his work, acquire the right amount of plaster, and so forth before he can begin.

  


Cassandra knocks on the door to his atrium, balancing a small stack of books in her hand. “These arrived for you this morning,” she says.

“Ah, excellent.” He takes them from her hands and sets them on his desk. Josephine must have sensed the urgency of his request, for the books arrived within only a fortnight. Though he is missing a few titles, he has every hope that they will arrive within the next few days.

“Thank you,” he says.

“It’s a very . . . interesting reading list,” she says somewhat delicately. “You know so much about the Fade, I have to wonder if these books have anything to offer you.”

Solas knows everything about the Fade, but he doesn’t know what everyone _else_ knows of the Fade. And he has only scraps of what has happened to his people in these intervening centuries.

“All knowledge is valuable,” he tells her. “And I am curious to compare my knowledge with others. Perhaps they have experienced something I did not.”

Cassandra nods. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”

After she leaves, Solas rifles through the titles before deciding on _An Enchanter’s Observations._ He settles in his chair and begins to read . . .

The second knock comes well after dark. By then Solas has both a headache from trying read in the dim candle light and a crick in his neck. Cassandra does not wait for him to answer the door this time. She barges in, carrying a plate of food in her hand.

“How did I guess you would still be reading at this hour?” she says, setting the plate on his desk. “You missed dinner. I took what was left for you.”

“Thank you,” he says, somewhat surprised by her attentions. “I had not noticed the passage of time.”

“I am prone to the same; sometimes I get so carried away in other worlds that I forget about the one I’m living in . . . Sometimes I want to forget. But no book is worth loss of sleep or starving. Or going blind,” she adds, motioning at the candle, which has burned down to a nub.

Solas lowers his book. “I’m not used to having people to check up on me.”

She pauses. “I hope I wasn’t intruding.”

“No,” he says swiftly. “I appreciate the gesture. I only meant that I have been alone for a very long time. But I must ask, what also keeps you up at this hour?”

It’s hard to tell in this dim light, but Cassandra might be blushing.

“Is it prayer?” he asks, wryly. “Or were you reading as well?”

“Good night Solas,” she says, turning to leave. “Make sure you eat something.”

He bows his head, his lips twitching with the effort of hiding his smirk. “Sleep well, Seeker.”

  


The next evening Cassandra shows up at his door again.

“I thought perhaps you would enjoy dinner while it was still warm,” she says.

“It’s evening already?” Solas looks up through the atrium to see the glimpses of sky streaked red and gold.

“I thought as much,” she sighs. “Come. It’s prudent to make it to the kitchens before the Iron Bull.”

He happily escorts her to the small dining area reserved for the Inquisitor and her inner circle. Josephine arranged for the space, citing a need to foster friendships and emotional intimacy in the wake of Haven. It’s a place he usually avoids, too used to the solitude of the last several centuries. With the exception of Shay and occasionally Varric, he finds it difficult to make small talk with his non-spirit companions. He must police every word that leaves his lips, and he has little to no shared interests or experiences to draw upon.

But to his surprise, he has a pleasant dinner with Cassandra, Josephine, Cullen, and Dorian.

“Bull sends his regards,” Cullen says. “He’s eating with his fellow Chargers.”

“You mean he’s bedding the new waitress,” Dorian says.

“I did not ask questions, for that exact reason.”

“Should I be concerned?” Josephine asks, her brow furrowing.

Dorian waves a hand. “He’s disgustingly charming; women and men fall over themselves for him. Not to mention that Sera would probably shoot an arrow through his unmentionables if she saw any harassment.”

Solas is content at first to sit and watch the banter batting around the table, the familiar routes of conversation between people with cultivated familiarity. He is an outsider, even here, lost among inside jokes and follow ups to stories told the days before.

He should have known he couldn’t hide from Josephine’s keen eyes.

“Solas, how is your research going?” she asks, turning to him. “Have any of the books you ordered proved fruitful?”

“They have indeed. Thank you for ensuring they arrived so swiftly.”

Dorian perks up. “What books?”

“I ordered a list on various topics for research,” Solas says.

Josephine nods. “Your next shipment should arrive within the week, as a matter of fact. I have to admit, even though I’m no mage, the Fade is rather fascinating to me.”

“Is that so?” He scans her expression for any hint of mockery, but finds none. “What would you like to know about it?”

Josephine laughs. “I wouldn’t bore everyone with my questions. But I would love to know – what is one of your favorite memories you found in the Fade?”

Solas is rather taken aback by the familiarity of the question; it’s not a simple request for information as he’s used to, but an insight into his character on a subject he loves. He takes a moment to ponder and then he spools out a story worthy of Varric and his tales. Josephine gives him her full attention, smiling and grimacing in the right places, and none of it feels fabricated.

He sees why, at such a young age, she is the diplomat of the Inquisition.

By the end of the evening, the clawing restlessness in his chest has eased.

  


One of his books is missing. Solas surveys the atrium once more, looking behind his couch or underneath the newly erected scaffolding. He knows for a fact that he had eyes on _The Fade and Its Mysteries_ by Brother Genitivi as recently as this morning.

When he exhausted all options in the atrium, his ears catch the slightest hint of Dorian’s humming and the answer crystallizes in an instant.

Solas ducks into the stairwell, his footsteps softened by magic. Dorian’s head peeks up from the chair in the library nook, and in his lap . . . sits the missing book.

“Ah. So this is where my book wandered off to.”

To his credit, the man registers Solas’s sudden appearance with barely a twitch of his shoulders. “Ah, Solas. I would have asked, but you were asleep at the time.”

“And waiting is beneath you?”

Dorian licks the tip of his thumb and flips the page. “Fascinating stuff, this. Give me another half hour and I’ll be done with it.”

The book snaps shut on his fingers.

“Or you could return my stolen property to me now.”

Dorian looks up at him with a cocked eyebrow. “Really? Did you pay for these out your pocket? Does that homeless apostate look of yours even _have_ pockets?”

“At least it has both shirt sleeves,” he counters.

“What are you going to do if one of your arms gets too hot?” Dorian asks, eyes wide and innocent.

Solas sighs. He’s almost three thousand years old and he’s devolving into an argument fit for two five-year-olds.

“My book, if you please.”

“Stingy bastard,” Dorian mutters, holding the book out.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Solas says with only a hint of sarcasm before heading back to his atrium.

“Can we at least discuss the parts I _did_ get to read?”

Solas looks over his shoulder. Dorian is _following_ him down the stairs. He turns swiftly around at the foot of the stairs and looks up at the mage.

“Are you serious?” he demands.

“Of course I’m serious!” Dorian looks rather exasperated. “It’s not like Skyhold is crawling with people capable of discussing the intricacies of magic.”

“You have Madame De Fer.”

“Pah! Circle mages like her are very . . . rigid in what they think they believe. Any sense of exploration outside the confines of conventionality has been beaten out of them by the Templars. She would never think of experimenting with something like –“

“ – time travel?” Solas finishes for him. “And you think a homeless apostate is capable of the depth of knowledge you seek?”

“Come off it, Solas. Your admittedly _horrifying_ sense of style is no indication of your intelligence. You frequent the Fade every night, you manipulate the energies of the rifts without batting an eyelash, and you’ve never been possessed. Clearly you have something to offer that’s not taught in formal education.”

Solas just looks at him for a moment, searching for any hidden motives, ulterior designs. He can’t help but hear Shay’s voice whisper in the back of his mind:

_But there are other people that would welcome the opportunity to know you. Maybe you should think about giving them the same chances you expect other people to give spirits._

“I must admit, I would welcome the opportunity to discuss the intricacies of magic with someone who could . . . keep up,” he says slowly, and triumph lights up Dorian’s eyes. “However, opinions about my clothing choices must remain _off the table_.”

Dorian mimes sealing his mouth shut. “You have my word.”

What follows for the next few hours is what Solas has craved for centuries: spirited debate, exchanging and exploration of ideas, challenging long-held beliefs. Dorian happily follows Solas down every avenue of a debate, able to take a challenge of his views without getting offended. Though they are not entirely excluded from moments of culture clash.

“Have you ever used spirits as servants? You would have no trouble capturing them.”

Solas’s jaw clenches. Before his rebellion, spirit slavery ran rampant among the highest echelon of elves. In many ways, Tevinter has replicated Arlathan without even knowing it.

“No. They are intelligent, living creatures. Binding them against their will is reprehensible.”

Dorian leans back in his chair. “How much ‘will’ do they have? They are amorphous constructs of the Fade.”

“Is Cole an amorphous construct of the Fade?” Solas counters.

“Cole is nothing like anyone has ever seen before. I’m not including him in this. Surely there can be nothing wrong with putting them to constructive use. And most mages back home treat them well.”

Most is not all. Solas doesn’t know which angers him more: that Tevinter has twisted itself into a human imitation of everything wrong with Arlathan or Dorian’s wide eyed ignorance of such cruelty when he postures himself as morally above his Tevinter brethren.

“And any that are shown magical talent are freed, are they not?”

Dorian blinks in the face of his sarcasm. “What? Spirits don’t have magical talent.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were talking about your slaves.”

A strange silence follows his remark, dripping in his bitterness. Dorian leans back in his chair, regarding Solas while he struggles to regain control of his emotions. What started out as merely a debate on the nature of Fade spirits should not end in a painful reminder that the differences between Solas and those of the modern world are too fundamental to overcome.

At the end of the day, Solas is an ancient being worshiped as a god, bent on the destruction of the world as everyone understands it and Dorian is a Tevinter mage whose every advantage stems from the subjugation of Solas’s people.

“I hope I haven’t offended you,” Dorian says.

He retreats behind superficial pleasantries in the face of Solas’s crude anger, and it makes Solas feel rather patronized.

“And if you have, why would it matter?”

Dorian cocks his head a little to the side, something soft slipping from behind his mask. “Because despite our differences we work together for the same cause. And because I respect you.”

“As a mage,” Solas says. Not as an elf. Solas wonders how much Dorian struggles with himself to forget that part of Solas in order to have conversations such as these.

“Well, I . . . I know there’s more to you than that.”

To his surprise, Dorian sounds rather chastened.

“The differences between us are not technicalities to be discarded, Dorian.”

There is a flash of hurt in his eyes. “I . . . was hoping we might find common ground, is all.”

Solas has no reply for this, but Dorian doesn’t wait for it regardless.

“I have intruded upon your space for long enough. Thank you for allowing me to read from your selection. I promise I won’t take without asking again.”

He stands up and gives Solas a small bow before heading back up the stairs.

  


If Shay had witnessed such an interaction, she would probably try to box his ears, even if she had to jump for it.. Luckily for her, he has Wisdom to do so in her place.

“You have a strange reaction to your loneliness,” they state placidly as he sits beside them.

“What do you mean by that?” he asks.

“You desire companionship and yet turn it away when it’s offered to you.”

“Ah. You mean Dorian.” He squirms a little at that. “He believes that if he gains my approval that will somehow erase the sins of his past racism. He is not offering friendship, merely a salve for his ego.”

Wisdom bows their head. “I forget how accurate a judge of character you are when it comes to other’s intentions. Forgive me.”

Solas flinches at the gentle rebuke, knowing instantly all they meant by it. His mistake with Shay is being repeated with Dorian, as if he’d learned nothing.

“Even if his attentions are genuine, we differ too greatly,” he says. “His empire is responsible for the oppression of my people.”

“Your people are responsible for the oppression of your people,” says Wisdom. “You cannot hold yourself above the sins of your homeland without allowing others that same grace. And people can never change for the better if they are rejected rather than taught.”

This is what he gets for arguing with a spirit of Wisdom. They only deal with truth in its rawest form, and it is not for the faint of heart.

“You’re right.” He sighs. “I reject emotional entanglements because I am afraid of them. They can only make things harder.”

Wisdom places a hand on his chest. “You live too much in the past. You worry too much of the future. You do not live in the present. Life is but a series of moments, and you have squandered too many of yours as it is. When it comes time for things to change, do not be hollow with nothing worth remembering. That is all the living have.”

Their words leave him breathless, a kick to the stomach.

“You should wake up,” says his friend, touching his forehead. “You have an apology to make, I believe.”

Solas’s eyes snap open. It has been a long time since he was startled from the Fade. He stares up at the ceiling of the atrium, wipes his face, and gets up.

  


Dawn has barely crawled over the rim of the world when he steps out on the battlements, hoping the cold air will clear his mind. He spots Cassandra sitting alone in the courtyard, her back against a tree, a book in her lap. Fondness rises up at the sight of her, curling like smoke, and an idea strikes him.

He lets himself into the kitchens, the only place bustling with activity in the entire keep, and grabs a small cup of coffee before heading back out into the courtyard.

“Should I say good morning or good night?” he asks as he approaches the tree.

Cassandra nearly jumps out of her skin, and the horror with which she looks at him and the speed in which she hides her book make Solas very curious at her choice in reading material.

“Solas! You startled me. What are you doing up so early?”

A red flush creeps up the side of her pale neck. Oh, he is very curious indeed.

“I enjoy the sunrise on occasion,” he says. “The view here is incomparable. And you?”

“I come out here to read when it’s quiet.”

“And what do you read that requires no witnesses?”

A spark of panic ignites in her eyes, and Solas feels guilty for his needling.

“I am only teasing, Seeker,” he says gently. “I saw you from the battlement and I thought you would enjoy this on such a brisk morning.”

He extends the mug of coffee, which she gratefully accepts.

“I will leave you to read undisturbed,” he says with a bow before he turns and leaves.

“It’s one of Varric’s books.”

He stops and turns back to face her. She is looking very determinedly down at the book in her lap.

“It’s embarrassing because I’m so angry at him, but I love what he writes. He makes it easy to walk in someone else’s shoes for a moment. Sometimes I need that.”

“There is no shame in that,” he says quietly. “Though I have to wonder if his books are really as good as their reputation.”

“You’ve never read his books?” She blinks in surprise.

“I’m a homeless apostate. Are you really surprised by that?”

“Well, yes. You’re so well read, and one cannot set foot in a bookstore or library without seeing at least one of his works.”

Solas smiles. “I do not typically read from bookstores and libraries.”

“You can borrow my copy of _Hard in Hightown_ if you ever want to see for yourself.”

“That’s a kind offer. I may take you up on it.”

“On one condition,” she adds, holding up a finger. “You must read with me in the morning. It’s the only way I know you’re getting some fresh air.”

“I must admit, you’ve been particularly attentive to me these last few days,” Solas remarks.

The side of her mouth quirks up. “The Inquisitor left me with explicit instructions to ensure your care in her absence,” she explains. “And now I see why. You’re hopeless. You have no balance between your health and your goals.”

Truer words were never spoken. Solas can only bow his head.

“Shay Cadash is a keen observer,” he says. “As are you. I appreciate it. Perhaps I can join you again tomorrow morning?”

“I will have the book with me,” she says, nodding.

He bids her farewell and sets off to the kitchens for his own breakfast.

  


It takes a few more hours before he hears Dorian saunter into the library upstairs. Solas heads to the staircase soon after. He gives himself no time to second guess or back down.

The moment Dorian catches sight of him, he holds up both hands.

“If you’re missing anything, it’s not me this time.”

“I am not here to accuse you,” says Solas. “I came to apologize.”

Dorian shifts on his feet, crossing his arms. “Apologize for what? Your woodsmen outfit? I tell you, I’m quite over it. Though if you would like any pointers in removing shirt sleeves, I would be happy to offer my advice.”

“Last night I took out on you anger from a very old wound. You did nothing to deserve it. I’m sorry.”

The man stares at him for a long moment, eyes searching Solas for signs of duplicity. It’s the same look Shay gave to him that day in the cabin when he offered her whatever honeyed words would get him back into her good graces.

This time he truly has nothing to hide (save for the obvious).

“It’s . . . quite all right, Solas,” Dorian says finally, running a hand through his hair. “A Tevinter mage and an elven apostate – there’s bound to be tension between us.”

“You had the hope to not let our origins define us. I . . . wish to share in that, going forward.”

The corner of Dorian’s mouth lifts up. “Well! I can’t say I expected the humble apostate to be so . . . humble. But I accept your apology. And I would also . . . like to offer mine in return. Though I am aware of Tevinter’s many flaws, it seems I have yet to rise above them all.”

“I think perhaps we share in that.” Solas offers Dorian _An Enchanter’s Observations._ “I would like your thoughts on this once you’ve finished, if you would like.”

Dorian accepts the book with a grin. “I would be delighted.”

  


Much like the books she loves, the usually reserved Seeker opens up under special, quiet attention. Each morning she grows more and more conversational – never enough to interrupt the flow of their reading, but as Solas reads through each chapter of Varric’s book, she asks more questions about his opinions on various plot twists and characters. He has to admit that he finds the book more enjoyable than he expected, especially after long hours reading dry, academic texts.

“Forgive me if I intrude, but I’ve been wondering something about you.”

Solas looks up from his book, intrigued. Cassandra has never asked anything personal before.

“Your questions will not offend me,” he assures her.

“Have you always lived alone? Out in the wilderness as an apostate?”

“For the most part,” he says, as if one year out of three thousand counted for much.

“Wouldn’t that be incredibly trying?” She looks over at him, her dark eyes soft. “I enjoy my solitude, but I do not know if I could be without companionship for so long.”

Neither can Solas, as it turns out. The mere taste of friendship has him wagging his tongue like a dog, as much as he doesn’t want it.

“People can be trying,” he says instead. “Mankind most of all.”

Cassandra huffs a small laugh. “Yes. That is an excellent point. It is why I have to wake up before the sun in order to read in peace.”

“Has your Inquisition grown too much for comfort, Seeker?”

Her eyebrows rise. “ _My_ Inquisition? This was never my Inquisition.”

“Why not? You did the brutal, thankless work of putting the wheels in motion.” He studies her carefully. “Do you feel no regret at letting that power pass to another?”

She shrugs. “I did my part. But that power was never mine to carry. I know myself, and I cannot be the leader we need. Thus, no regret.”

“You surprise me again, Seeker.”

“Your opinion of me must be very low to surprise you so often,” she says with good humor.

Sometimes he wonders if Cassandra Pentaghast is real or a fabrication for some ulterior purpose. She embodies too many qualities that he admires for someone so closely tied to the greatest enemy of his people; chief among them a self-awareness that few people of any race possess. In addition, she is humble, kind, and a fierce protector of the weak.

If she wasn’t also tempestuous, blunt, and deeply awkward at times, he would have to believe her too good to be true.

“Not low. Just realistic,” he says. “I have found that few people, however honorable, release the power they’ve won.”

Not even Mythal would have had the insight to give up leading a powerful organization such as the Inquisition, yet Cassandra does so without a second thought. It’s unsettling to find the qualities he wishes his own people had possessed in a human so closely tied to the Chantry.

“I know,” she says, looking out at the mountain peaks over the battlements. “I have seen it for myself, people I trusted betraying their morals for greed and lust. I cannot allow myself even the opportunity for such temptation.”

“I have doubts you would ever take it,” he says.

That earns him one of her rare smiles, small and tinged with sadness but no less beautiful.

“Speaking of power, have you ever considered reforming the Circle from within?” she asks him. “I have heard pieces of your conversations with Dorian. You have both knowledge and wisdom. You could have made the difference.”

It’s incredibly flattering that she believes him capable and trustworthy enough for the task.

“I admire your optimism, but ask yourself honestly how the Templars would have reacted.”

Immediately she understands, judging from the way her brow furrows. “You fear they would have made you Tranquil.”

“There is no doubt in my mind. My studies threaten established ideas. I would never have been tolerated.”

One of the few things about Vivienne that he does admire is how effortlessly she walked such a thin line in order to keep both her skill and her advantages without losing herself.

Cassandra heaves a deep sigh. “I suppose you are right. Repairing the damage done will take great effort.”

The mage/Templar war continues to weigh heavily in her thoughts, even as the Inquisition – and the rest of Thedas with it – has focused their efforts on Corypheus. Cassandra understands, at least, that such tensions will still remain once Corypheus is dealt with. There is no easy or obvious solution, though that does not stop her from continuing to look for one.

This time Solas offers one of his own rare smiles. “Were there more like you, Seeker. It is a comfort having you on this journey.”

There is a small pause, a shadow crossing over her face. “You so rarely call me by my name, Solas. Why is that?

The question – and the hint of pain that accompanies it – takes him aback. “Manners, perhaps?”

“Manners have not held you back on other occasions.”

She sounds almost accusatory and he wonders if he has unknowingly hurt her. “I say what I believe to be true, even if it gives offense to those who would prefer the lie. But there is no lie in what you are, Cassandra. Your position is an honorable one, and well earned.”

She looks away, blinking rapidly, and he has no idea if he’s soothed her or made things worse.

“Truly, I meant no offense,” he says, faltering. “I only wished to show that I hold you in great esteem --”

Her hand clasps his shoulder. “You have not offended me,” she says, still not quite looking at him. Her voice sounds tight. “Come. It’s almost time for breakfast.”

Solas notices her swiping a thumb at the corner of her eye as he marks his place in his book, but he says nothing.

Between his mornings with Cassandra, his research in the afternoons with Dorian, and dinner spent with various members of the Inquisition, Solas finds he has less time to plan his murals than he initially thought. Eventually he is forced to finalize his plans in the Fade during his sleeping hours, as Wisdom watches with passive interest.

Shay’s party is due to arrive within the week, and Solas must get this done before she returns. He trades his afternoon with Dorian for mixing his plaster and sorting his pigments. Each fresco will take an entire evening and most of the night, and then he’ll rest in the wee hours of the morning when he should be reading with Cassandra.

She has stayed a respectful distance from the atrium, leaving Solas to his work undisturbed. Dorian has no such respect the first evening.

“What on _earth_ are you doing?” he demands from the balcony the first night. “We’ve been in this castle nearly two months and you’re just now thinking of remodeling?”

Solas does not spare him a glance. He is too busy smoothing the last thin layer of plaster before the real work begins to indulge in the man.

“Dorian, I have barely seven hours to finish this entire piece before the plaster dries. If I make one mistake, I have to scrape the plaster off and start over. So, and I say this with the utmost affection, _shut up_.”

After that, Solas hears not a peep from the upstairs, so assumes that Dorian has wandered off to find something else to amuse him. Not that it matters, as Solas must use all his focus on the task at hand.

He collapses onto his couch just as the sky above lightens to gray and sleeps too soundly to dream before awakened by a loud shout.

“Maker’s _breath,_ Solas!”

Dorian stands a few feet away, staring up at the wall, his chin held in his hands.

“ _This_ is what you’ve been working on all night?!”

With a deep, long suffering sigh, Solas climbs from his couch to join Dorian.

“I told you I needed my concentration.”

Dorian gives him a keen-eyed glance. “How the _hell_ does someone like you know how to do something like _that_?”

Solas just smiles secretively. “Even hobo apostates have their surprises.”

  


He hears Shay before he sees her, her shouts filtering through the cracked door to the battlements. Solas is content to sit at his desk and wait for her, as she is no doubt getting inundated with greetings and news and responsibilities that have waited for her attention. Even so, it does not take long until her voice is right outside his door.

“Solas!” she cries, slamming his door open.

His stomach clenches, but she has not seen the wall yet, her attention entirely upon him.

“What the hell is all this I hear about you turning into Mr. Social Butterfly while I was away,” she says, making a beeline to him. “Eating dinner with Josephine? Reading with Dorian? Playing _strip Diamondback_ with Blackwall and I not there to witness it, how dare y–“

She glances over at the wall and then does a perfect double take. Her hand slides off the desk as she slowly pivots to the wall, her lips parting.

“What . . . is that?”

Solas had one memory guide him through the design of his murals: Shay hiding in the battlements, shaking with self-loathing and fear, breaking under the pressure of everyone’s expectations. He wanted to built a testament to her leadership, a reminder that she is accomplishing everything she thought she could not.

“They’re representations of the major decisions you’ve made for the Inquisition,” he explains. “Every path down which you have led us.”

She says nothing for a long time, stepping closer to the murals and craning her head up to take in their full splendor.

“Is Shay Cadash speechless?” he asks, leaning against the desk. “That’s quite a feat. Though I can’t tell if it’s due to awe or horror.”

“I’ve never seen _anything_ like this before,” she breathes. “ _You_ did this?”

“They’re frescoes, done in the ancient elven style,” he explains. “So no, you would not have. Do you like them? Or . . . have I possibly overstepped?”

She steps to him and flings her arms so tightly around him that she knocks him back into the desk. He stiffens for a moment, still unused to such contact, before he rests his hands on her shoulder blades.

“They’re beautiful, Solas,” she says. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, Inquisitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the idea that Solas is only ever positively influenced by the Inquisitor and no one else is total bullshit and I don't buy it. Also it was VERY DIFFICULT for me not to make his scenes with Cassandra and Dorian super shippy as those are both my secret crack ships. I'm not sure how well I succeeded but whatever. 
> 
> If anyone is interested in more Solas/Cassandra epic friendship with slight shippy undertones, check out my other fic, "Time Does Not Bring Relief." Even though it was written with a generic Inquisitor in the background, I think I will tweak it to make it part of this universe with Shay.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal gratitude to my Beta readers, who are the sole reason why this isn't riddled with a hundred errors because I'm too impatient to edit before I slap this thing up there. Love y'all *chef kiss*

The noise startles Solas out of his reading. At first it sounds like the screech of a dying animal, accompanied by several loud thumps.

It’s not a wild animal. It’s the Inquisitor, singing. She spins and lurches around, pulling Cole along with her.

“ Dance, Cole,” she says, her words slurred like putty.

“ I do not know how.” Cole stumbles along regardless.

“ Iss easy! See!” She tries to twirl them around and knocks them both into Varric’s chair, nearly sending it into the dying embers of the fireplace.

“ Please stop,” he says beseechingly. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

She blows a raspberry at him and stumbles back out into the main hall, dancing, it seems, with an invisible partner.

“ What happened?” Solas asks.

“ She was with Iron Bull at the tavern,” says Cole. “They drank something no one else would touch – “

“ _ Maras-lok! _ ” she yells, waving her fist in the air and nearly losing her balance. “ _ Atashi _ !”

“ She drank a lot.” Cole looks up at Solas rather desperately.

“ I’ll take care of it from here,” he says. “Thank you for helping her get this far.”

Cole nods, relieved. “I will bring her some water.”

“ Yes, she is going to need it.”

Cole melts into the shadows, silent as a cat, while Solas turns his attention towards Shay, whose drunken twirling has started to slow into a precarious sway.

“ Come,” he says, stepping towards her. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She reaches out and takes both of his hands into hers, swaying them side to side. “Don’ wanna bed. Wanna dance. You dance?”

“ I have been known to, when the occasion calls for it,” he says. “Though it has been quite some time since those occasions called.”

She just looks up at him and blinks. “Huh?”

Good gods, just what did Iron Bull  _ give  _ her?

“ There are too many obstacles down here,” he amends. “Let’s dance in your room.”

“ Too many stairs,” she groans, making a face.

“ I’ll help you.” He takes one of her hands and places it in the cradle of his elbow, as any gentleman would, and tugs her towards the door to her chambers without giving her a chance to respond.

There are, in fact, too many stairs – at least three flights. The Inquisitor loses her enthusiasm early on, leaning more and more against him for balance. Her eyes start to droop, and she stumbles over the edge of the steps. Eventually Solas is forced to pick her up and carry her the last flight. She drapes herself over his chest like a child, her legs wrapped around his middle and her head lolling on his shoulder.

The door flies open with magic, and he sends a tongue of flame into the fireplace as he staggers up the last steps and into her room. With some difficulty – she may have the stature of a child but certainly not the weight – Solas lowers her onto the bed.

Her eyes flutter open and a smile spreads slow as syrup at the sight of him. “Solas . . . when di’ you ge’ here?”

“ Rest, Inquisitor,” he says. “Save your questions for the morning. I’m sure you’ll have many.”

“ You like quessions.” She reaches out one wobbly hand and taps the tip of his nose. “Boop.”

He gently pushes her finger away. “Not all questions.”

“ Jus’ my quessions.” The edge of her smile twist into a smirk.

“ Yes.” Fondness blooms unexpectedly in his chest. “I do enjoy your curiosity. Goodnight, Shay. Sleep well. You will have many regrets in the morning.”

He straightens up and heads for the stairs.

“ I’m a bad person, Solas.”

His feet stop at the banister.

“ A bad, bad person. Iron bull said that it was good to – to kill the dragon, but I think it was mean. I think – “ her voice cracks – “I think he was min’ing his own business and I – I went into his house and  _ murdered _ him.”

He turns to find her outwardly sobbing, her hands lying limply on the bed, too drunk to wipe her own tears. His first thought is to call for Cole – he has no idea how to comfort the ravings of a drunk dwarf. But judging by the relief on his face when Solas came out of the atrium, the spirit has gone through enough.

So Solas turns back and sits on the edge of her bed.

“ What if he had  _ babies _ ?” she wails. “I’mma  _ murderer. _ ”

“ You were defending yourself,” he says. “You would have died if you didn’t fight.”

She shakes her head. “I coulda run away.”

“ You can’t outrun a dragon.”

“ Yes I can! Shuddup. Yes I can.”

Solas sighs. Why did he think he could reason with the deeply intoxicated?

“ I messed up,” she says forlornly. “I messed up bad. What do you do when you mess up?”

Her wide brown eyes look up at him so beseechingly that it pierces him, even though it’s nothing but a drunken bout of temporary insanity.

“ You do your best to make amends,” he says after a moment, pushing old feelings away. “And if you can’t do that, then you resolve never to make your mistake again.”

She nods. “’M always gonna run away. Always. Now on.”

“ You can certainly try.”

She says nothing after that, her glassy eyes narrow and focus on his face. Her hand reaches up again, her fingertip lazily tracing his cheekbone, earlier tears forgotten.

“ You’re so pretty,” she whispers. “So, so pretty. Good face. Like your face.”

He sits, frozen, as her fingertip journeys whisper-light down his jawline and back up again. She reaches the shell of his ear, and the feel of her touch there makes him jerk back, almost violently.

“ Thank you,” he says, swallowing hard and taking her hand and placing it back down onto the bed. “I will leave you to your rest. Good night, Inquisitor.”

“ Mmmm,” she says in return, and her snores echo before he can reach the door.

  
  


No one sees much of the Inquisitor the next day. Cole informs him that the Iron Bull went up to check on her, a bottle of some Qunari hangover cure in his hand, terrified that he might have accidentally killed her. Solas continues with the research Shay had interrupted the night before until a tentative knock comes at his door close to dinner.

“ Come in,” he says, and the Inquisitor appears.

Her eyes have dark circles, her hair out of its usual braided bun, a riot of curls barely contained by the simple ribbon tying it back. But otherwise, she looks well.

“ So you survived the night,” he says. “Iron Bull was concerned he might have poisoned you.”

“ Yeah, I made a new promise to myself that I will never drink what that man pours me ever again,” she says, hopping upon his desk. “I, uh, heard that you were the one who carried me up to bed.”

“ Yes, I had that honor.”

Her gaze stays focused on her dangling feet. “I don’t remember anything about last night, but apparently I tried to get Cole to dance with me and nearly set Varric’s chair on fire? I didn’t, um, do or say anything humiliating with you, did I?”

The memory of her holding his hands, trying to get him to dance flares up.

“ Would you want me to be honest if you did?”

“ It’s tempting to say no, but I should probably atone for my sins.”

“ You did cry because you killed a dragon,” he tells her. “You called yourself a murderer and said you would run away next time.”

“ That’s it? Drunk crying?” The Inquisitor looks relieved. “Drunk crying I can handle. But usually when I get drunk I get embarrassingly flirty. Like the ignore-personal-boundaries kind of flirty. I didn’t do anything stupid like that, did I?”

The touch of her finger on the shell of his ear.  _ You are so pretty _ .

“ No,” he lies, tucking the memory away. “Nothing like that.”

She looks up at him, relieved. “Oh good. Everyone else I could live it down, but not you.”

“ And why is that?”

“ Because you’re so . . . put together. You never lose an iota of control over yourself.”

Solas laughs. “You think I’ve never made a drunken ass of myself?”

Her eyes grow wide with curiosity. “ _ Have you? _ ”

The amount of stupid reckless things his younger self did under the influence of alcohol and other substances could fill Dorian’s library. “Let us say that if you did show any humiliating, inappropriate behavior, I would have only the greatest empathy for you.”

“ One of these days you should tell me about one of them. We’ll trade embarrassing stories.”

“ Perhaps,” he says, though he never intends to.

He wishes he could. The Inquisitor is the kind of person who would appreciate the misadventures of his youth. It is fortunate indeed that she could never meet that version of himself, because the combination of her fun-seeking, reckless mischief with his fun-seeking, reckless idiocy would be a terrifying combination indeed.

  
  


Even after the Inquisitor’s return, Solas and Cassandra still continue their morning routine. They meet up on the battlements near the atrium, Solas occasionally with coffee, and sometimes stay to watch the sunrise before resuming their place in the courtyard.

That morning the sky is a dreamy, breathtaking swirl of orange, red, and pink. Neither of them can take their eyes off the quickly brightening sky.

“ Have you ever painted a sunset?” she asks him.

“ A few in my time,” he answers.

“ I’ve always wondered: how does one paint light? How do you make the paint . . . glow?”

“ There are many factors at play: the intensity of the pigment, the way you blend them together, the contrast of light and dark– “

His explanation is pierced by what sounds like the bleating of a goat, followed by a sickening slap of flesh hitting stone directly below them.

They immediately race to the edge of the battlement and peer over. A dead goat sits on the ledge underneath them, its entrails dripping down the wall. Much further below lies an encampment centered around a crude trebuchet.

“ Avvar,” Cassandra says grimly.

They exchange glances.

“ What could they possibly want?” asks Solas. “Our skirmish was months ago.”

“ Avvar never forget a slight. I will rouse Cullen. You rouse the Inquisitor. Their party is too small to be dangerous, but all threats must be taken seriously.”

  
  


“ Okay – I’m sorry – what’s going on?” The Inquisitor blinks up at him sleepily, her hair poking out of its braid like hay in a scarecrow. “Who is throwing goats?”

“ The Avvar,” Solas says. “They are camped outside of Skyhold. Cullen is taking reinforcements to meet them as we speak. Sky Watcher has confirmed that they belong to his clan.”

“ They can’t possibly still be mad at us. That was, like – six months ago!”

“ According to Cassandra, the Avvar take their grudges very seriously.”

She groans and falls back down onto the bed. “It’s too  _ early _ for this shit. Have Cullen lock up whoever won’t die in honorable combat or whatever and come wake me up in two hours.”

“ A counter-offer: I bring up coffee from the kitchens and you have ten minutes to get up and get dressed.”

“ I reject this counter-offer.”

“ Your rejection has been noted and dismissed,” he says, heading for the stairs. “Ten minutes.”

Her growl of frustration echoes off the walls.

He smirks.

  
  


The Avvar surrender immediately without a single blow befalling either side. Their chief, Movran the Under, requests immediately to see the Inquisitor. He is an intimidating, towering man, nearly as tall and wide as Iron Bull, yet allows himself to be carted in chains without a fuss.

Their easy surrender does more to put everyone on edge than if actual blood had been shed. By now the Inquisitor has been fed, caffeinated, and dressed due to no small part from Solas. She waits for Chief Movran on her throne, her hair tamed into its usual impeccable bun, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

“ This was a surprise,” begins Josephine. “This morning we discovered this man attacking the building . . . with a . . . goat.”

The Avvar in question is led to the dais, his chains clinking in the silence. Dressed in horns and thick furs, his armor mostly body paint, he sticks out as the strangest individual in a room of diverse people.

“ Chief Movran the Under. He feels slighted by the killing of his Avvar tribesmen. Who repeatedly attacked you first.”

“ I know, Josie. I was there.” The Inquisitor fights another yawn. “You answered the death of your clan with a goat? It certainly took you long enough. Did you get lost for – six months?”

Movran the Under looks up at the Inquisitor and chuckles in caustic disbelief.

“ _ You’re  _ the one who killed my son?” He shakes his head. “You would barely reach his knee.”

“ Conveniently, that is the first place that I stabbed,” she says. “Once he knelt down, it was easy to get the rest of him.”

“ Clearly size is no indicator of skill,” he concedes with a tilt of his head. “This courtroom farce is unnecessary. You killed my idiot son and I answered, as is my custom, by smacking your holdings with goat’s blood.”

“ You don’t sound very torn up about it.”

“ No foul.” Movran steps back, putting his shackled hands up. “He meant to murder Tevinters, but got feisty with your Inquisition. A redheaded mother guarantees a brat.”

“ As a redheaded brat, I can verify that statement,” she says.

It is difficult to tell between the hood and strange paint, but Solas thinks the Avvar is smiling.

“ Do as you’ve earned, Inquisitor. My clan yields. My remaining boys have brains still in their heads.”

He laughs and sounds a little unhinged. But judging by the way she straightens up in her seat and the way the edges of her lips curl, she likes him.

“ You’re right, Chief Movran; your son was a fucking moron and a total asshole. I’m glad to hear that you think your other sons are less idiotic, and I have no quarrel with them or you, but I can’t risk any more of your offspring getting . . . feisty again. So I’ll have to banish you.” She leans back in her chair. “To Tevinter.” She looks down at her fingernails rather theatrically. “With as many weapons as you can possibly carry.”

Chief Movran stares at her a moment, then throws his head back and laughs. “My idiot son got us something after all!”

The Inquisitor grins. “Be sure to give your new neighbors a warm welcome. Cullen – make sure the Chief has what he needs to be comfortable in Tevinter. We’ll call it a housewarming gift. Oh, and unshackle him. That’s entirely unnecessary at this point.”

Solas keeps an eye on the armament of the Avvar clan below the battlements later that day. It’s easy to forget, even now after all this time, her criminal origins. But there is a diabolical streak a mile wide hiding behind the innocence of her wide-eyed, freckle-cheeked expressions.

It’s something he would do well to remember, especially when she approaches him a few nights later, a worn deck of cards in her hands.

“ So, I heard you’re a killer at diamondback,” she says, hopping up on his desk.

Solas looks up from his notes. “Reports of my skill are greatly exaggerated.”

She levels him with a look of great skepticism. “You had never played before that night and by the end of it you had won ten straight hands, and Blackwall had to streak through the courtyard with only a bucket for his  _ shit _ . That is  _ not _ an exaggeration.”

“ Diamondback is a game of chance. I simply had luck on my side that night.”

“ Bullshit! Ten hands in a row is not just luck and you know it.”

Solas sets his quill down. “And why do you suddenly care so much about this?”

“ Because no one expects someone like you to be good at a game like that. Which tells me one of two things: you intentionally hustled Blackwall by pretending you’d never played it, or you’ve got a reckless mind hidden behind that stuffy, book nerd persona you carry on. And I want to know which one it is.”

Solas carefully wipes down the nib of his quill. Even after so many months, moments like these – feeling suddenly exposed by her oblivious yet uncanny scrutiny, as if one wrong step will reveal everything to her – still take him by surprise. She is a traveler unintentionally ignoring the jerking compass needle of her instincts as she heads in the opposite direction. How long will she continue to doubt and ignore the voice in her head? And what will happen when she stops?

He shrugs with false nonchalance. “If I play a game with you, will that satisfy your curiosity?”

“ It might satisfy a part. And if we play the way you and Blackwall did,” she smirks and lets her eyes dip down his chest, “it might satisfy the rest.”

“ You seem very confident in your skills,” he remarks. “Perhaps it is my curiosity that will be sated.”

A faint flush creeps up her neck, one at odds with the impish tilt of her grin. “If you wanted to get me undressed, there are easier ways.”

“ But not as much fun,” he says and she laughs, her cheeks glowing.

She drags a chair from Varric’s table in, and Solas attempts to clear space from his desk, stacking the books on the floor.

“ Do you remember how to play?” she asks, shuffling the cards with quick and deft hands.

“ Yes.”

“ Well then.” She finishes shuffling with a final snap. “Let’s see what you got.”

  
  


She wins the first round, but only barely. For two more rounds, she scrapes victory by the skin of her teeth. After the fourth round, she lowers her freshly dealt hand and glares at him.

“ You son of a bitch.”

He raises his eyebrows, trying to look innocent. “Pardon?”

“ You’re losing on purpose.”

He struggles to hide his smirk. “I told you before, it was beginner’s luck that got me so far with Blackwall.”

“ You’re so full of  _ shit _ .” She slaps a hand on the table. “You’re analyzing how I play, what my tells are, so you can use them against me later.”

“ I’m not the only one,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You’re barely winning yourself, yet have the bravado of someone much more skilled.”

The side of her mouth curves up wickedly. “Alright. Rematch. No holding back.”

Solas wins the next match. Barely. He loses the next one. As he suspected, she is a cunning, devious player whose only tells are ones she allows to be shown. And though it feels like tiptoeing a knife’s edge, revealing this part of himself, he enjoys the opportunity not to hold himself back for once. She takes great satisfaction in this, grinning with his every victory.

They play with no stakes – not money nor clothing nor other acts of humiliation. Even so, they play as promised, no holds barred, staying neck and neck in their victories until they lose count of the tally. They play until she fights a yawn and stretches her arms in the air.

“ I had no idea it was getting this late,” she says, nodding at the candles that have grown nearly to stubs. “I’m out.”

“ You only say that because you just won the last hand,” he points out.

She does not refute this, only smirks as she stands up and stretches. “I can see how Blackwall lost so badly. It’s a shame we didn’t have a similar wager – we’d both be satisfying each other’s curiosity.”

“ There’s always next time,” he says.

  
  


The Inquisitor has never repeated the antics of that night with Iron Bull and the  _ maras-lok _ , but once a week she trickles drunkenly up the stairs from the kitchens after a night of cards with Varric. It’s usually late at this point, the main hall dark and quiet. At the sound of her wildly out of tune singing echoing off the empty walls, Solas always slips out of the atrium to ensure she makes the trip without hassle.

She never notices him there, his presence muffled with magic, and he enjoys the sight of an Inquisitor unburdened by the attention of others. She talks to herself when she isn’t singing, complaining of the various hands that Varric wins or the Chantry-heavy décor of the hall or the amount of stairs she must traverse to get to her rooms.

Tonight she treats him with a drunken rendition of “Sera Was Never,” a song that started as a joke and is now so infuriatingly catchy that it has spread like wildfire throughout the ranks of the Inquisition. Even Solas has caught himself humming it.

Just before he starts to melt back into the shadows of his alcove, something catches his eye. A glint of metal in moonlight. A shadow creeping in the dark behind Shay, silent as a wildcat.

An assassin.

“ Shay!”

Solas reacts before he can think, fade-stepping across the hall and throwing a wall of ice against the assassin and knocking him to the floor. In seconds Shay is straddling him, knife pressed against his throat hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. Ice blooms across his wrists, pinning them above his head to the floor, before he can reach one of the many knives hidden on his person.

Judging from his stature and his clothing, it’s a Carta dwarf that swallows carefully under her blade.

“ I’ve been waiting for one of you to show up,” she says. “My spymaster and critically acclaimed biographer have been busting you assassins left and right for months. It’s a little embarrassing, actually, how long it took for you guys to slip past their defenses. You’ve gotten sloppy.”

The dwarf responds by spitting in her face.

Shay has no reaction, but in that moment Solas has to stop himself from stuffing the assassins’ throat with ice until he suffocates from it.

She looks up at Solas, wiping the spit from her cheek. “I think I hit a sore spot,” she tells him, and she shifts into a more comfortable position, sitting cross legged on the assassin’s chest with her knife point tapping dangerously close to his jugular. The assassin’s breathing gets short.

“ Listen, don’t beat yourself up about it. Leliana is  _ very _ thorough and Varric’s from Kirkwall, and we all know the Kirkwall Carta are all psychos.” Her tapping pauses. “You’re not from the Kirkwall Carta, are you? Because that would be awkward.”

“ You have no idea who you owe,” says the assassin. “And one way or another, you  _ will _ pay.”

The Inquisitor rolls her eyes. “Did they tell you to say that? Is there a script you memorized or something? I have pissed off a lot of people. Whoever hired you isn’t special.”

She looks up at Solas again. “Is there a way you can knock him out with magic?”

Not by any conventional means as known by modern magic, but Shay has no idea what magic is considered normal and what isn’t.

“ Of course.”

“ Great. Let’s get his ass in a cell.”

By the time they have secured the would-be assassin in one of the holding cells below the hall, any hint of tipsiness has dissipated. Solas insists on walking her to her room regardless.

“ I’m fine, Solas, you don’t have to fuss,” she says as they emerge back into the main hall.

“ I am not taking any further chances,” he says.

“ What, are you going to spend the night in my room with me?”

“ I will at the very least thoroughly check and ward your room before you sleep.”

She rolls her eyes. “In case you forgot, I am also a Carta dwarf. This is not my first rodeo with assassins, you know.”

“ You were almost killed tonight.”

“ I already had my knife in my hand when you blasted him, thank you very much.”

Solas opens the door to the stairs. “After you.”

Shay groans and stomps up the steps, but he catches a flash of a good-natured smile on her face in the mage-light.

“ You said earlier that you were waiting for the Carta. What grudge do you think they hold over you?”

“ When I was sent to the Conclave, I had a giant ass shipment of lyrium with me. If a war broke out, we were supposed to sell it to whoever had the most money. I know, it’s fucked up, but that’s what my cousin sent me to do. When it blew up, everyone thought I was dead for a while. But eventually they figured out I was the so called Herald of Andraste, and they all thought that because I survived, the lyrium also survived, and so I must have sold it, kept all the profits for myself, and used the Inquisition to hide behind so no one could get back at me.”

Solas’s head reels a bit trying to piece all this together.

“ You would think the Breach would put such petty concerns into perspective,” he says.

Shay throws her head back and laughs. “Money is the most important concern there is.” A thread of deep cynicism runs through her words.

“ Did you tell your cousin the truth?”

“ Oh, months ago, and I had Josephine pay for the cost of the lyrium. But he’s not the one sending assassins. He banded with a few other Carta families to get all that lyrium together as one mass investment, and they’re the ones who are pissed.”

They reach the door and Shay swings it open, knife glinting in her hand. Solas steps in first, barrier already in place, but her room is quiet and undisturbed. Still, Shay makes a great show of stabbing the air inside her closet and scaling the ladder to check the storage shelf above it.

“ All clear,” she says.

“ You’re remarkably nimble for someone who’s drunk,” he comments.

She grins at him. “I’m not drunk. Varric and I have been keeping watch on that guy for a while – he posed as a mason, but he kept breaking the stones when he repaired parts of the wall. But he’d made himself scarce this past week, so I figured he’d try something the next time we played cards.”

“ You’ve been vigilant,” he says. “But that will not stop me from taking my own precautions.”

“ Whatever will help you sleep at night,” she says with an eye-roll.

Solas wards her entire room, taking special care around the windows, fireplace, the closet, and the door to the stairs. Nothing will get in here without his notice, not even a dwarf. During his ministrations, Solas noticed a chessboard with an incomplete game sitting on her desk.

“ I didn’t know you played chess,” he says in delighted surprise.

“ I don’t. At least, not well. But I’ve been trounced by both Dorian and Cullen too many times, so I’ve been playing myself to get some extra practice in.”

She slides nimbly down the ladder and dusts her hands.

“ I fear playing yourself will not get you the experience you need,” he says.

“ Do you play chess?”

“ I have. It is a game I very much enjoy.”

She gestures at the chess board. “You want to play a round? Give the assassins time to jump us one last time before bed?”

“ I would love to.”

They sit on her couch and set a new game up. He allows her the first move, both as a show of manners and as a way to gauge what kind of player she will be.

“ Don’t get too excited,” she says, “It’s not like Diamondback. I haven’t played this game very long, so it’s not going to be an even match.”

Several moves later, Solas realizes too late that he should have heeded her warning with a grain of salt. Shay’s best survival mechanism is using people’s natural inclination to underestimate her. Chess is no different.

Solas goes easy on her the first few turns because winning in three moves would be both rude and unenjoyable, and she takes merciless advantage of this. She sacrifices rooks and knights to look inexperienced and then takes out his queen with a pawn.

And when his attention is caught by the rain that starts swirling against her windows, she switches one of his rooks with a pawn.

“ Did you really think I don’t have this entire chessboard memorized?” he asks, switching them back.

She blinks up at him, wide eyed. “Are you seriously accusing me of  _ cheating _ ? At  _ chess _ ?”

“ Yes.”

A grin twitches at the corners of her mouth before breaking loose. “Well, you’re absolutely right. But to be fair, chess is so boring compared to cards, I had to do something unpredictable.”

“ I much prefer chess to cards,” he says. “With chess, your victory depends on your skill. Winning at cards is based entirely on the whim of luck.”

“ There’s strategy in luck,” she argues.

“ How so?”

“ You have to know when to keep taking the risk and when to play it safe. That kind of thing isn’t just random guesswork; you have to keep track of what cards have been played, what kind of player you’re up against, what cards you have versus what could still be in the deck. That sort of thing.”

“ You have a point,” he concedes. “But I think you like cards because there are a multitude of ways to cheat.”

She points a finger at him. “You, sir, are correct. But that makes it unpredictable, which makes it interesting. It’s another variable I have to juggle in order to win.”

“ Does Varric cheat at cards?”

“ _ Insidiously _ . He’s so good at it, it’s like he invented cheating at cards. If you don’t count how many face cards have already been played, you would never know. Really keeps you on your toes.”

Solas wins the match. Shay didn’t lie about her inexperience; however, he sees a spark of potential in her – she plays like him: deviously.

“ You know, with more time and practice, you could be a fearsome opponent indeed,” he says after their match. “You have good strategies. You just need more experience.”

“ We’ll see. All I want to do is beat Dorian  _ once _ just to shut his stupid, smug mouth.”

“ Any time you want to practice, I am available,” he offers.

“ I might take you up on that,” she says.

A yawn breaks out, and she stretches her arms over her head.

“ Are you satisfied with your wards or are you spending the night?” she asks. “Pretty sure my bed is big enough for the both of us.”

He’s tempted to call her bluff, but such impropriety could not be explained even by a joke. “That’s gracious of you, but I must decline. My wards will hold against Carta assassins, that you can be sure of.”

She graces him with a smile, soft and small. “Thanks for worrying, Solas.”

“ Always,” he says. “Goodnight, Inquisitor.”

“‘ Night, Solas.”

  
  


There is nothing exalted about the Exalted Plains. It stinks of death and despair and hate. The Veil here is thin, the traumas of the past screaming and ripping their claws through it. Even Cassandra looks discomfited underneath the gaze of the Chantry statues and the way they glorify so much death. He doesn’t need Cole to tell him the guilt that accompanies the confrontation of her faith’s darkest parts.

But nothing can eclipse the guilt he faces with himself – for he took the first steps that led the path of destruction here.

“ The Exalted Plains, named to honor to ‘great’ victory of Orlais over the elves.” Dorian’s tone is full of acid. “It figures that most of the fighting happened here and not in Orlais.”

“ This place gives me more of the creeps than the Fallow Mire,” remarks the Inquisitor, giving the statues a wary eye.

“ The Exalted Plains have been soaked in too much unexalted blood,” says Solas. “Great battles thin the Veil. This region will be home to demons for ages to come.”

“ That’s just great. I love that.” The Inquisitor sighs. “Let’s gets this mess over with and get the hell out.”

“ Agreed,” says Cassandra tersely.

The work should be halved for them, as the Inquisitor sent Blackwall, Varric, and Iron Bull out to help on the western side. He is grateful that she left Cole back at Skyhold. The press of memories here would take its toll on him. They check their gear one last time and head for the first battlement.

  
  


Their work is hard, thankless, and gory. Demons and horrors pour from the Veil, and they have to take extra care to burn all bodies before moving on. Solas fears the smell will never leave his senses. They clear two areas before nightfall and collapse, exhausted, into camp with barely a word spoken to each other.

Solas avoids the Fade here, having witnessed enough death in his waking hours as it is, but he is dragged into by screams in a familiar voice.

“ _ Help me!” _

“ _ Solas!” _

“ _ They are taking me!” _

“ _ Solas they are taking me, they will change me.” _

“ _ Help me!” _

“ Solas! Wake up!”

Hands on his shoulders, the brush of hair on his face. His eyes snap open to see the Inquisitor in his tent, kneeling beside him.

“ You were yelling,” she says, her eyes wide with concern in the dim mage-light. “Are you okay?”

He pushes her hands aside and sits up.

Wisdom. It was Wisdom, and they had been taken against their will. He caught flashes of the very fields he had traversed earlier today – or was it yesterday? The reality of it is so abhorrent, he almost refuses to believe it.

He looks over at Shay. “I need a favor.”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course. What do you need?”

“ One of my oldest friends has been captured by mages,” he says, hoping that voicing it will make it sink in. “Forced into slavery. I heard the cry for help as I slept.”

“ I thought you didn’t have many friends besides spirits.”

He looks at her pointedly. “I don’t.”

“ Oh shit,” she says, realization dawning on her. “Okay.”

“ My friend is a spirit of Wisdom. Unlike all the other spirits clamoring to enter our world through the rift, it was dwelling quite happily in the Fade.”

“ Do you know what the mages want with your friend?” she asks.

The relief at seeing how quickly and seriously she takes this makes him want to embrace her.

“ No,” he says. “It knows a great deal of lore and history, but a mage could simply learn that by speaking to it in the Fade. It is possible,” he adds slowly as it dawns on him, “that they seek information it does not wish to give . . . and intend to torture it.”

The thought of it makes him sick.

“ Don’t worry, Solas. We’ll get your friend back.” Shay reaches over and squeezes his arm.

“ I had gotten a sense of my friend’s location before I woke,” he says. “I’ll mark it on our map and then we’ll be on our way.”

He moves to stand up, and Shay grips his arm.

“ Woah, woah, Solas. Slow down. It’s not even fourth watch yet. We can’t go tearing off in the middle of the night in  _ this _ demon infested hellhole.”

“ I --” everything in him is screaming to leave, but she is right. To traverse this area, so full of rifts and demons and undead corpses with only the moonlight, could be suicide.

He doesn’t care.

Her fingers tighten their grip as she tugs him to sit back down, as if sensing his reckless thoughts.

“ I know you’re worried. The second that sun rises, we will run out of here like our ass was on fire. But until then, we have to wait.”

He takes a deep, steady breath. “I know.”

“ Do you want me to stay with you?”

“ No.” It comes out harsh and cold, and he softens the blow of his tone by taking her hand and squeezing it once. “Thank you, but I need to get my thoughts together.”

She nods. “Okay. I’ll let the others know to be ready at dawn.”

He does not sleep the rest of the night, and judging from the restless movement in the tent beside him, neither does the Inquisitor. When the sky begins to lighten outside, she is already out of her tent, fixing coffee over the campfire and rustling Cassandra and Dorian from their bedrolls.

To his relief, neither of them protest the sudden change in plans. They gather their gear, get breakfast for the road, and take off.

The closer they get to Wisdom, the more bodies they see. It starts with one peppered by arrows. The Inquisitor stops briefly to examine it.

“ One of the mages it seems,” says Solas. “Killed by arrows.”

“ Bandits?” Dorian suggests.

Shay nods. “Possibly.”

But the bodies that appear closer to their target are different.

“ These aren’t mages,” Solas says slowly. “The bodies are burned – and these claw marks –“

The realization dawns on him suddenly, horror sinking coldly into his bones.

“ No,” he whispers. “No, no, no.”

“ A demon’s work, unless I am mistaken,” says Cassandra gently, carefully, never one to shy away from the truth.

Solas takes off at a run the rest of the distance over the ridge. A pride demon stands snarling in the middle of a summoning circle.

Too late. He’s too late.

_ They are taking me, they will change me _

He screams in frustration.

Shay appears, slightly out of breath. “I thought you said it was a wisdom spirit.”

“ That’s not its true form! It’s been  _ corrupted.” _

“ Corrupted?”

“ Forced to act against its original purpose!”

He digs his fingernails into his scalp. If he had hair, he would have pulled it out. “What did they do? What did they do?  _ What did they do _ ?!”

A mage approaches them, his face pale with fear. Relief dawns on his face at the sight of Solas and his staff.

“ A mage? You’re not with the bandits?” He looks between Solas and Shay. “Have you any lyrium potions? Most of us are exhausted; we’ve been fighting that demon . . .”

“ You’re the one who  _ summoned _ that demon,” Solas snarls. “Except it was a spirit of wisdom at the time! You made it  _ kill.  _ You twisted it against its purpose!”

“ I – I – I can understand how it might be confusing to someone who’s not studied demons, but after you help us, I can --”

“ We are not here to help.  _ You _ .”

The look on Shay’s face is pure poison. “And if anybody is confused about demons, it’s your stupid ass. So I don’t think you get to lecture anybody right now.”

“ Listen to me,” the mage pleads. “I was one of the foremost experts in the Kirkwall Circ--”

“ Shut.  _ Up _ .” Solas and Shay say in unison.

“ You summoned it to protect you from the bandits,” he adds.

It makes sense now. One of their party felled in the dark by arrows, the rest panicking and summoning a demon to do the fighting they are too cowardly to do themselves.

“ I – yes,” the mage admits.

“ You bound it to obedience and commanded it to kill.  _ That’s _ when it turned.”

The thought of Wisdom, kind and quiet Wisdom, having to spill blood on its hands –

He will kill this man before the day is over.

But first, his friend.

“ The summoning circle,” he says to Shay. “We break it, we break the binding. No orders to kill. No conflict with its nature. No demon.”

“ What?” the mage squawks. “The binding is the only thing keeping it from killing us! Whatever it was before, it’s certainly a monster now.”

Solas turns to Shay. He cannot save Wisdom alone.

“ Inquisitor,  _ please _ .” He would get on his knees at his point and beg her.

But he doesn’t have to.

“ What do we do?” she asks immediately.

“ The summoning circle is currently a part of the demon’s nature. It will certainly attack us as we attempt to break it.”

As if on cue, Wisdom growls in the background, electricity snapping around it.

“ I’ll run around and distract it,” she says. “You three break the circle.”

“ That’s too risky,” protests Cassandra. “You could get killed fighting it alone.”

“ Then be quick about it,” snaps Shay. “Come on!”

She dives into the summoning circle without a second thought, sending Solas, Cassandra, and Dorian scrambling after her. Small and quick, she dodges bolts of lightning and swipes of its fist, slicing at its thick hide just enough to keep its interest. The rest of them make short work of the summoning circle, Solas throwing everything in his being to disrupt it.

In the end, it does not matter. Wisdom sits, their essence fraying and held together by his force of will alone.

“ _ Lethalin _ ,” he murmurs, kneeling before them. “ _ I’m sorry _ .”

“ _ I’m not. I’m happy. I’m me again.” _

He gazes upon their face, drinking in the sight of them. It will be the last time he ever sees it. Wisdom looks at him with knowing eyes.

“ _ You helped me. Now you must endure. Guide me into death.” _

Everything in him screams to hold on. When he lets go, watching Wisdom dissolve like smoke and ash, it tears something deep inside him.

“ _ Dareth Shiral _ .”

He feels Shay’s steady presence behind him.

“ Well . . . shit,” she whispers.

“ Thank you for coming,” he says, standing. “Better that my friend had a moment’s peace before the end. All that remains now is  _ them _ .”

He turns to face the three mages standing slack-jawed behind them.

The head mage has the gall to thank him.

“ We would not have risked a summoning if the roads were not so dangerous to travel unprotected.”

“ _ You.”  _ Solas stalks towards the mage, who falls back, his face contorting in fear. “You tortured and killed my friend!”

“ We didn’t know it was just a spirit,” the mage protests. “The- the book said it would help us!”

There is a cold, gaping chasm in his chest where empathy, understanding, or forgiveness should be. A rage that he has not felt for centuries courses through him. His hands shake with it. He wants to take this world and burn it. He wants to rip the Veil asunder a hundred times and watch this world writhe in the excruciating aftermath. He wants to see every ignorant, pompous, Chantry-loving human burn to ashes.

The mage turns pleading eyes to the Inquisitor. Solas follows his gaze. One word from her would be the only thing keeping him from murder right now, and even then he isn’t sure for how long.

Shay looks at the mage dispassionately. “There are no words to describe how fucked you all are,” she says and she turns away.

Fire, bright explosive flames, envelope the mages before they even have time to scream. The ashes of what’s left of them crumple to the ground, encased in the metal pieces of their robes.

“ Damn them.  _ Damn them all _ .”

He watches the grass around them burn, the brief flicker of satisfaction he took in their deaths already gone.

“ I need some time alone,” he says to Shay. “I will meet you back at Skyhold.”

  
  


It takes him days to fall asleep. He stumbles across the plains until he is too exhausted to carry on before he can sleep. He knows the place where Wisdom resided will be empty, but seeing it for himself feels like a kick to the stomach. He falls to his knees beside the bench on which they sat.

_ Now you must endure _ .

There is no joy in enduring. No exhilaration. Just a cold, numb, determined march for as long as one can keep up, much like his journey across the plains. Solas has already endured too much.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep it up.

  
  


It takes him three weeks to find his way back to Skyhold.

To be fair, he is not in any particular hurry to get back. The troubles of the Inquisition, his own mission, feel shallow and unimportant in the face of this loss. And he cannot stomach the thought of returning to Skyhold and donning his harmless, bookish mage demeanor like an ill-fitting costume. 

Waking in this world, seeing the destruction he wrought with his own hands and witnessing how causally its denizens accept such a dismal existence, causes him almost more pain than he can bear. But worse than living in this ruined future is being the only one who remembers how the true nature of how this world is supposed to be. Every day he plays a game of pretend, and the only relief from it he found was with Wisdom. 

For over two thousand years, Wisdom had been his companion, his mentor, his anchor. It had seen him through his reckless youth, his anger and rebellion, his recovery, and his stumbling in this new Thedas. Not only has he lost a dear friend and a powerful force of good, but the only being who truly  _ knows _ him. For whom there is no pretense, no need to be on his guard, no pretending. 

Never before has he felt so utterly, deeply,  _ alone _ . 

The grief claws at him. He has banished such sorrow to the back of his mind before, so he can focus on the tasks at hand. But this time it refuses to leave, a heavy miasma that sinks into his bones.

Perhaps, when this is all over, he will have nothing left to endure.

  
  


He has not taken three steps into the courtyard when Shay comes running out onto the steps. She pauses for a moment, taking in what is no doubt a haggard appearance, before dashing down the stairs and throwing her arms around him, staggering him backwards with the force of it.

His arms wrap around her almost of their own accord. Some feeling expands in his chest, like a soft breeze, and the tight grip of his sorrows loosens just a bit. 

Shay says nothing, to his surprise. She just holds onto him as if he might disappear. Solas can feel eyes on them from the courtyard, but neither of them care. He resists the urge to grip her tighter when she pulls away. 

"I was worried that you might have --" She bites her lip. "-- that you might not come back."

_ I was worried that you might have hurt yourself _ . 

He does not need Cole to voice the unspoken words. They hang in the air, almost tangible. Perhaps he should not have taken so long to return. He didn't think anyone would worry to such a degree. 

"It hurts. It always does. But I will survive it," he says, trying to reassure her.

He will endure.

She nods, but there is a misery reflected in her eyes, which do not meet his own. 

"I'm sure you're exhausted," she says, studying the ground at their feet. "I'll leave you to get settled back in. Tell me if you . . . if you need anything."

"Thank you," he says, rather taken aback. Honestly, he had braced himself for more fussing, not this abrupt dismissal. 

She nods and makes her way back up the stairs.

His atrium is exactly as he left it before their journey to the Exalted Plains. Nothing is disturbed, not even his long-dried quill pen and half-finished notes. It’s easy to imagine Shay guarding this space jealously, protecting it, despite the increasing worry that he may not return.

The thought of it almost makes him smile.

“ Solas!”

Dorian calls for him, leaning over the balcony of the library. 

"When did you get back?" he asks. 

"Not very long ago," Solas replies, rather reluctantly. He cannot indulge in their usual battle of wits. The thought alone exhausts him. 

"I see." Dorian gives him a look too long for Solas's liking before disappearing. 

The soft thud of his footsteps echo down the stairs and Dorian appears, several books cradled in the crook of his arm. He sets them on the desk.

"These came for you while you were away," he says. "I took a gander through them. I hope you don't mind.  _ On Silver Cords _ holds some promise, but Archon Vius is a fountain of garbage, so take his book with a pound of salt or two."

Solas traces the leather engraving in the cover of the top book. "Thank you," he says with a deep gratitude that surprises him. "I will be happy to confer with you once I'm done reading them."

Dorian nods, but lingers by his desk, glancing at the doorway to the stairs. 

"Ah, Solas . . .," he trails off.

Solas waits him out, his face impassive but not forbidding, he hopes.

Dorian clears his throat and tries again. "Listen, I know we don't always see eye to eye on . . . well, just about everything. But I want you to know that I am . . . sorry about your friend. I know a little about what that is like --" His voice grows ever so slightly tight and he swallows a little deeper than usual. "I know you won't take me up on it, but I will still offer my attention if you ever want someone to talk to."

To Solas's shock, Dorian clasps a hand on his shoulder for just a brief moment before nodding and heading back upstairs. He remembers, as he watches Dorian leave, that he received the news about Felix just before they left for the Exalted Plains. Despite his arrogance and vanity, Dorian is not without empathy, but the fact that he extended such empathy to Solas surprises him. He thinks on it as he digs for  _ On Silver Cords  _ and begins to read.

  
  


Later that evening Shay appears with a plate of food in her hand. 

"Here," she says, placing it down on the edge of his desk. "Just in case you missed dinner."

"Thank you," he says, looking up from the book, which does nothing to distract him. "I hadn't noticed the time."

She nods and turns to leave. Something is wrong. To be so distant after such a long absence – it's out of character for her. Is she angry with him? 

"Wait," he calls. "Something is troubling you."

"It's nothing," she lies, guilt bleeding through her usually flawless delivery. 

"It's not nothing."

"It's not something you need to be worried about."

"The loss of one friend does not mean I stop caring about the others."

She flinches at his words, arm wrapping around herself. Something is very wrong. 

"Shay," he says gently. The use of her name never fails to get her attention. "What is it?"

"You didn't . . . have to come back."

Solas looks at her in surprise.

"You were a true friend. I could hardly abandon you now."

"Well, maybe you should have. I fucked up. I failed you and your friend is dead because of it.”

Anger glints in her eyes. Anger at  _ herself.   _ It bewilders him.

" _ Failed _ me? You did everything in your power to  _ help _ me. Without hesitation. At great personal risk to yourself. None of what happened was your fault.”

He remembers vividly how determinedly she jumped into that summoning circle, prepared to sacrifice herself just for the chance to help him. He never thanked her for it, or for allowing his act of vengeance, or for immediately dropping every scrap of Inquisition business to get to his friend as quickly as possible.

She shakes her head. "You wanted to leave the moment you woke up and I made you wait until morning. We could have made it – it wasn’t that far, there weren’t any rifts on the way, we’re all armed to the teeth – but I made us all wait until morning. If we hadn’t, she would still be here. I’m  _ sorry _ . I didn’t know she could be corrupted. I had no idea the magnitude of what was going on.”

Tears slide down her cheeks and she furiously wipes them away.

"Wisdom was likely lost the moment they dragged it from the Fade,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“ You’re lonely enough as it is,” she says, voice tight. “I don’t want to be responsible for making you lose what few friends you have left.”

Lonely. Yes. And of course she knows. No matter that he has created a thorough impression on everyone else that he prefers solitude, that his own company is sufficient and preferable to all others. Shay always sees through him, connecting the dots of his being just like the constellations in her astrariums.

He recognizes it now, that feeling that had swept through him the moment he saw Shay waiting for him on the front steps. 

Relief. 

Bone-deep relief. 

Because he is not as alone as he earlier feared. There still exists those who know him, who know  _ Solas _ , and not the Dread Wolf and not the Evanuris and not the savior and destroyer of his people.

“ Wisdom understood me, listened to me, gave me valuable advice, accepted me for the flawed being that I am. For a very long time, they were the only being who did so. But since I’ve met you, that is no longer true. The loss of my friend hurts, deeply, but I can move on because they are not the only being who cares about me.”

Shay sniffs and wipes the corner of her eyes. “I’m not the only one, you know.”

“ Yes,” he says softly, thinking of Dorian’s awkward but sincere attempt to reach out, “I know.”

“ You should-- “ She clears her throat and gestures at the forgotten plate of food on his desk. “-- you should probably eat before it gets cold.”

Food is the last thing on his mind, but after his long and empty journey, he knows he should eat.

“ I would not like to eat alone . . . if that is all right?”

Shay looks surprised. “Of course.”

  
  


They end up in her rooms, sitting on the carpet with their food in front of her fireplace. They eat with their fingers because Shay has forgotten the silverware and is too lazy to make the trek back down to the kitchens to get it. There are no doubt a hundred servants and workers here who would love to complete such a mundane and easy task for her, yet the thought of asking doesn’t seem to have crossed her mind at all.

“ Where did you go when you left?” she asks.

“ I found a quiet spot and went to sleep. I visited the place in the Fade where my friend used to be. It is empty, but there are stirrings of energy in the void. Someday something new will grow there.”

“ What happens when a spirit dies?” She picks at her roll. “I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“ Your questions never bother me,” he assures her. “It isn’t the same for mortals. The energy of the spirit returns to the Fade. If the idea that formed the spirit is strong, or if the memory has shaped other spirits, it may someday rise again.”

“ Your friend can come back?” There is a spark of hope in her eyes.

“ No,” he says softly. “Not really. A spirit’s natural state is semi-peaceful existence. It is rare to be able to reflect reality. Something similar may reform someday, but it will have a different personality. It . . . would likely not remember me. It would not be the friend I knew.”

“ I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you don’t blame me, but I’m still sorry that it ended the way it did. You don’t deserve that.”

“ It may sound strange, but I appreciate what you did for my friend,” he says. “Because of you, they could return to their true self before they died. It may not seem like much to you, but it matters to me.”

She nods, and they resume their dinner in pensive silence, both of them staring at the flames in the fireplace.

“ My dad was like that,” she says after a while. “Like Wisdom. He knew me best out of everyone. He taught me everything I know.” She snorts. “Some things I’m sure would offend Cassandra’s moral sensibilities, but they’ve saved my life. Other things built my character. He was real big on character. Most Carta bosses rule through fear and blackmail, but my dad wanted it through respect, admiration, love. He wasn’t always successful; some decisions were hard to make and sometimes you don’t get a lot of options, but . . .”

She trails off, and he waits patiently for her to continue.

“ When he died, I felt like I had lost the one person guaranteed to love me with no strings attached, no game to play.”

“ What happened?” he asks.

“ He got sick and he just . . . couldn’t get better. I don’t know. Nothing that any healer or medicine could do would help. He died almost a year ago.”

“ So soon?” he asks in surprise.

Not even a year . . .

The explosion of the Conclave was roughly nine months ago . . .

So when he first met her, the grief was still fresh and acute. It’s a loss she has hidden well, though right now it sits heavy in her eyes. He thinks of all the times she has offered her friendship to him, to others, the way she clings to her emotional attachments, the panic she experiences at the thought of losing any one of them.

Shay waves the mark at him. “It’s not like I’ve had a whole lot of opportunity to process it. Which I’m grateful for, actually. It’s weird to say, but this mark might be the best thing that’s happened to me. It’s given me friends when I needed them most.”

He swallows hard and looks away, but the glow of the mark still lingers, inescapable, from the corner of his vision.

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is the chapter where Solas fits an entire foot in his mouth and then some.

“Solas, could you take a look at these?”

Solas looks up to see Dorian dangling a roll of paper tied with string over the balcony.

“These aren’t more notes from Varric’s latest erotic installment, are they?”

Dorian chuckles. “No, I couldn’t recreate that if I tried. These are notes on Alexius’s research.”

Solas perks up. “Yes, of course I will.”

“I thought so. I’ve added some of my annotations as well.”

Instead of delivering it down the stairs, Dorian just tosses the notes over the balcony, sending Solas scrambling out of his chair to catch them. Still, he can’t complain – Dorian and Alexius have a fascinating take on magic. All those centuries and all that ability, yet none of the Evanuris ever considered manipulating the Fade for time travel. Keeping Alexius within the Inquisition not as a prisoner but a researcher is one of the Inquisitor’s best decisions.

In fact, he muses, all of Shay’s decisions show a remarkable balance of logic and compassion for someone so young, so inexperienced with leadership and completely uneducated on magic. She has defied all of his expectations, and he feels incredible pride at her growth and journey so far.

With his frescos looming over him, he wonders if she still struggles with the self-doubt that plagued her at the beginning of the Inquisition.

The thought still lingers during their chess rematch. Shay hovers over a rook, bare-handed, the glow of her mark reflecting off of the mirror polish of the wood.

She has learned to live with the Mark, judging by how often she forgoes her gloves, but the sight of it will always make him sick. It is destroying her, slowly and secretly, and she will never know and he can never tell her. He is left with the haunting knowledge that a part of him will slowly eat her away until there is nothing left.

A thought, sudden and sickening, seizes him. Does the Mark only affect her physically – or has it somehow invaded her thoughts and influenced her mentally?

He swallows thickly.

"What were you like? Before the Anchor?" 

Shay pauses and looks up. "What do you mean?"

"Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your . . . spirit?"

Shay laughs. "What kind of question is that?”

“It’s . . . an unknown magic. It could have effects on you that you might not notice.”

“If that’s true, how would I be able to tell you if it did?”

“That’s a good point,” he concedes.

“Sorry to disappoint, but you can’t blame my insanity or idiocy on the Anchor. It’s all me, babe.”

“You are neither of those things, Shay. Quite the opposite. You show a wisdom I have not seen since . . ."

Since Mythal and the gentle way she cared for their people.

"-- my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected."

"You were expecting a petty criminal, remember?"

"No, not that." He shakes his head. "Most people are predictable."

Especially when he has watched them repeat their idiocy for centuries upon centuries. He casts around for a current example and lands on her.  

"Dwarves are practical. They do not dream. They cannot even imagine a world beyond the physical. But you have shown a subtlety in your actions. A wisdom that goes against everything I know of your people."

Shay leans back in her chair, her face curiously blank, and she says nothing for a long moment.

"Do you have any other racist, backhanded compliments for me or are you done for the day?” she says finally.

Her response is so at odds with what he expected, it takes him a moment to process her words.

“Because if you’re done, you can leave now.”

He studies her expression, but it is as blank as a wall of fresh plaster. In fact, it harkens dangerously close to the look on her face during their first fight, nearly a year ago.

“Are you upset?” he asks, somewhat bewildered. He backtracks their conversation, trying to find the words that have unintentionally offended her. 

Shay laughs, short and caustic. “Am I upset? I don’t know, you just told me how surprised you are that a dwarf could lead this Inquisition without fucking it up, that I must be specially influenced by an  _ elvhen _ artifact because any other dwarf would have run this place into the ground, and then you topped it off by spewing a bunch of ignorant and outdated stereotypes about my people. So I don’t know, Solas, you tell me.”

A storm flashes in her eyes. Her nonchalant posture has the tension of a coiled lion.

"I think you've misunderstood me," he says slowly. “I told you how deeply I admire and respect you and you’ve twisted it into something insulting.”

A storm of his own is brewing, replacing his shock and bewilderment. How on earth did this conversation become so derailed?

Her arms cross and her head cocks to the side, and with it all pretense of nonchalance goes. "Oh, no, I understood perfectly. You said I go against everything you know about my people just because I'm a competent leader. How the hell am I supposed to  _ not  _ be insulted by that? You’ve spent almost your whole life alone, so what the hell do you even know about my people? How many dwarves have you known  _ personally _ before Varric, huh? How many?"

None. But he doesn't need to. Between his people's experiences with them before the Veil and his own exploration of them in the Fade, Solas doesn't need to personally befriend dwarves to understand their behavior patterns.

"It's zero, isn't it?”

“Yes, but that is irrelevant. The Fade has --”

She makes a loud growl of frustration and cuts him off. “Fade doesn't count, don't even start with me! Varric is an internationally famous storyteller. Dagna could enchant literal garbage into weapons of total destruction, not to mention that she studied magic  _ at a Circle _ ; but sure, all dwarves live in total ignorance of anything that’s not right in front of our face. Harding risks her life every day so we can travel safely and accomplish our goals, but practicality in the physical world is ignorance. Just because I can't do magic and I don't prance around the Fade with my spirit friends like a jackass doesn't mean that I'm stupid, and it doesn't make you better than me."

"That's not what I said!" he snaps, standing up and raising his voice just to get a word in edgewise. "Did you not even  _ listen _ to me?"

She follows suit, standing so abruptly that the chess pieces wobble, and plants her hands on the table to lean across it. Despite their friendship, he isn't entirely certain she wouldn't try to stab him right now. 

"Yes! I listen to you all the time. I listen to you whine and complain about how narrow-minded everyone else is about elves and the Fade and spirits and magic and yet here you are with the  _ same fucking problem _ . You’re the most narrow-minded person here! You’ve spent all your time avoiding this world and everyone in it, reliving memories that aren't even yours. Maker forbid you have to wake up and deal with reality. Corypheus is just some massive inconvenience you have to deal with so you can get back to dreaming. And  _ this _ \--” she grabs one of the pawns and waves it in his face, “is me! Just some ignorant child you got stuck with , desperate for your advice and approval. Well guess what, I make my own decisions, and I don’t really give a  _ shit _ if you approve of them or not.”

"Yes, you’ve made that perfectly clear,” he snaps.

“ _ Good.  _ Now you can leave by door or by balcony, but get the hell out of this room.”

“ _ Gladly _ ,” he spits and walks away, clenching his shaking hands.

 

 

Solas is scribbling down notes from one of his books when the walls tremble with such sudden force that it upends his inkwell onto both his four sheets of note-filled parchment and his lap.

He slams his chair back, ears on high alert, fearing for one moment that Corypheus had somehow managed to stage another surprise assault.

His door to the main hall opens and Varric peeks his head inside.

“You alright, Chuckles?”

“What  _ was _ that?” he demands.

“Shay is apprenticing herself under Sera and her crazy bomb making. Yesterday they both set themselves on fire in the courtyard. Today is explosives testing on the ramparts. I didn’t think they’d get this close.”

“Thank you,” Solas says tersely. He walks, dripping ink on the floor, to the exit to the battlements and wrenches it open.

Shay and Sera stand some feet away, digging through a small box for what looks like another match and giggling.

He stares at them for a long moment. In the last two weeks they have not spoken a single word to each other.

“Could you please practice somewhere else?” he asks with deceptive calm.

Sera looks up and promptly bursts into laughter at the sight of his ink splattered clothes. He refuses to feel humiliated by it.

“No,” Shay says coolly. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Fine,” he says, and turns away, ears burning.

He ends up having to take his research (and an extra change of clothes) down into the basement where she keeps the bottles of suspect alcohol she finds just to get away from the noise.

 

 

In the aftermath of their first fight, so many months ago in Haven, Shay treated him with a basic, neutral courtesy that had nearly driven him mad.

Now she does not even afford him the acknowledgment of his existence. She does not speak to him, she does not even look at him. Any question she has about the Fade or magic, as they wait for word back from Harding and her scouts in the Western Approach, is taken to Dorian, the snippets of such conversations trickling down to his atrium as a vicious reminder.

It takes almost all of his willpower not to march up the stairs and correct them, such as when Shay and Dorian decide to waste Inquisition resources to find Corypheus’s true name and shame him in Tevinter, as if that would do any lasting damage to a darkspawn with delusions of godhood. But if Shay wants to entertain Dorians’ idiotic attempts to provide any sort of relevance then fine by him.

He welcomes the distance, for he has too much anger of his own to miss her company.

When he first awakened, he immediately sought out his own kind. City elves were easier to track down, but their lives were so far removed from their own culture, and such a painful reminder of the destruction he has caused, that he did not linger. The Dalish were harder to find, but he could see traces of their original shared history in their traditions and beliefs, despite being mangled by time and misinformation, and it gave him hope.

He did not expect the almost instantaneous rejection he faced in their community. His elven heritage did not shield him from their contempt or from their immediate categorization of him as being an outsider. They listened to his attempts to share historical information with thinly veiled suspicion and the moment he challenged their assumptions, they exiled him. They refused him any opportunity to explain or clarify, they made no attempt to understand the true meaning of his message, and they derided his knowledge by insulting him.

He faced much the same among humans, both mages and templars, when it came to the Fade.

The miracle of Shay has always been that, as a dwarf, she should have rejected it all out of the inability to understand, and yet she has been the only one who listens to him without immediate judgment. To have her willfully misunderstand him, refuse him an opportunity to explain, just as the Dalish did, angers him more than the rejection by his own people.

It just proves how foolish he has been, thinking he would not be alone in this world.

 

 

Even though preparations are in full swing for the upcoming trek to Adamant, new recruits are trickling in from all corners of the world, and reports of Corypheus and the Venatori arrive almost daily, there is still room for gossip about their disagreement.

He ignores the whispers and glances and conversations that stop abruptly when he walks past and throws himself back into his research. He avoids all companionship, skipping out on dinner with Josephine, his mornings with Cassandra, his discussions with Dorian, and they allow him the space he has taken.

But Cassandra, as he should have known, would not be denied forever. She catches him in the kitchens just before dawn, before even the cooks have arrived, sneaking bread and honey for breakfast.

“Did you know that the Inquisitor has just now returned to bed?” she asks, conversationally.

“I do not make it my business to know how she spends her free time,” he says stiffly.

“She stayed up all night drinking that horrid Maraas-Lok with Iron Bull. There was much singing. And crying. And yelling. I suspect you know why.”

“I suspect everyone knows why,” he says, trying to look indifferent.

Cassandra studies him for a moment.

“Walk with me,” she says and though she does not sound angry, neither does she sound willing to put up with a refusal.

Solas sighs, puts down his bread, and follows her out onto the battlements. Truth be told, he has missed his time with her and feels guilty for shying away. She leads out into one of the corner towers, dismissing the guard on duty. Leaning against the parapet and looking out onto the sun as it slowly rises above the horizon, she speaks.

“What happened with the two of you?”

Solas appreciates that she is not looking at him. It makes it easier to talk.

“You mean she has not already told you?”

“No. She has expressed anger and the sentiment of not wanting to talk about it. It’s possible that Iron Bull heard a garbled account, but she was barely intelligible last night. I had to carry her to bed.”

The fact that Shay has not gossiped far and wide about the supposedly terrible things he has said to her surprises him. He isn’t sure what to think of it. (Or what to think of the sudden stab of pain at the memory of when he carried her up to bed.)

“The Inquisitor and I had a disagreement.”

Cassandra sends him a side-eyed glance. “That much is obvious.”

“When I tried to express my respect and admiration for her work in the Inquisition thus far, she twisted it into something insulting and then refused to allow me to clarify. I cannot reason with someone who does not wish to understand.”

A lesson he has learned over and over again.

Cassandra remains silent for a long moment, and for a brief moment he fears her judgment. But she has proven on more than one occasion to be a person who considers multiple aspects of an issue before making a decision and so he allows her the space to gather her words.

“I am not very good with words,” she says finally, turning around and putting her back against the parapet. “When I was younger I used to speak without thought, but even though I am more circumspect now, I still find myself tripping up. I am often too blunt, too impatient, too angry. And now, being in this Inquisition which has brought together so many different people in a situation for which there is no precedent, I still find myself trapped by the limitations of my experience. Like with you.”

She gestures her hand at him.

Solas leans his head to the side. “How so?”

“I am a human with close ties to the Chantry. I’m part of the Seekers, who are a form of templar. You’re elven, you believe in different gods, you are a mage, you’ve never been trained in any Circle. I have no frame of reference for any of that, and it made me afraid of you when we first met. That is why I was so . . . aggressive.”

She crosses her arms and looks rather shame-faced.

“We were all on edge that day,” he says to relieve her. “And so far I have yet to hear you utter anything truly offensive and ignorant.”

“That is because I have learned to keep my mouth shut,” she says, the corner of her mouth quirking up. It fades as she gives him a searching look, as if bracing herself for something. “What if I had said that you are unique in your ability to control yourself, despite your close affinity with the Fade and the complete lack of templar supervision? That any other mage would have lost themselves in possession because they cannot handle the temptation of power or freedom? If I had said that I respected your compassion, discipline, and rationality because mages generally lack all three, would you feel respected?”

“No,” he says softly, the realization surprising to him.

“No,” she agrees. “Of course not. I have enough experience to know, now, that no group of beings can be entirely categorized by a single trait. But not so long ago I did believe all mages inherently greedy for power and unable to resist the temptations of the Fade without Templar intervention. I believed the Tevine untrustworthy, the Orlesians cowardly and superfluous. Even now, with all that I have learned, I am still challenged by Cole every day to reconsider what I think I know.”

“So you’re suggesting that I am also limited by my own experiences when it comes to my interactions with others and therefore cannot trust my own understanding.”

“I am suggesting that everyone is, in some way. I have no doubts that what you said to the Inquisitor came from sincerity, but you do not possess the full knowledge of her experience to know how it would sound to her.”

“I do not dispute what you are saying,” he tells her. “I just . . . wish that others could put in the same effort to understand me that they expect me to put in understanding them. It is frustrating to feel as though I am the only one expected to conform so that everyone else is more comfortable around me, rather than the other way around.”

A laugh, short and tinged with bitterness, burst from Cassandra.

“You have put into words what has bothered me for most of my life,” she says. “People like us will always have tension with others because we challenge our expectations. But we must either work through it or be alone, and for now, at least, we all need each other.”

Solas looks at her, watching the way she looks down at her fingernails, so unaware of the impact of her words.

“The friend I had lost to the mages was a spirit of Wisdom,” he says. “You remind me of them.”

Cassandra laughs, a startled burst. “A spirit of  _ wisdom _ ? If I didn’t know you better, I would say you were flattering me for ulterior motives.”

“You think it doesn’t suit you, but Wisdom did not shy away from hard truths and neither did they spare others from them, just as you do. It is a . . . comfort, to see that in you.”

Cassandra bows her head. “I am honored, then. Thank you, Solas.”

“You have given me much to think about, Seeker. It is I who should be thanking you.”

“I will leave you to your thoughts, then,” she says, clapping him once on the shoulder before walking away.

He stays there, undisturbed, for a long time, with the uncomfortable realization that Cassandra is right dawning on him along with the sun.

_. . . you do not possess the full knowledge of her experience to know how it would sound to her. _

Shay thinks him arrogant and narrow-minded, and to her, knowing only what he has allowed her to know about him, that would seem true. He cannot fault her for not understanding that his words have three thousand years of experience behind them, most of which were spent in a society comprised entirely of elven mages.

The more time he spends in this world, the more he realizes that the Fade has not truly educated him on how much it has changed. He thought he could sift through the bias and emotions that color the memories to uncover the reality that lies beneath, but that was a fool’s errand. Nothing he has actually encountered truly matches up with what he thought he learned. His experience is limited exactly the way Cassandra described.

_ Dwarves are practical. They do not dream. They cannot even imagine a world beyond the physical _ .

He had meant that as a neutral statement of fact, no different than telling her that the clouds release rain or that plants bloom in spring. He never meant it as the insult Shay immediately took it as.

_ Just because I can’t do magic and I don’t prance around the Fade with my spirit friends like a jackass doesn’t mean I’m stupid, and it doesn’t make you better than me. _

But now, upon further reflection, he can see the condescension in it. How many times had he told Shay how much he valued his dreams or the Fade or spirits? To then tell her that her people are incapable of what he valued so highly could come across as arrogant superiority.

Well, it was. Solas is three thousand years old. He is capable of magic that would make him seem a god. He sundered the world from the Fade and changed history forever. But Shay doesn’t know that. To her he is just a strange, simple apostate who has lived most of his life among ruins. His opinion might be valued as a friend, but she knows nothing about him that would justify how highly she should value his judgment of her. Seeing himself in such a light makes his praise sound incredibly pompous and arrogant.

Replaying his words, the reason for her anger becomes clear: he had expressed his respect for Shay  _ in spite of _ who she was and not because of it. He views her dwarven heritage as an obstacle to overcome and not an asset. She was right to get angry and she was right to accuse him of narrow-minded arrogance.

He should wake her with coffee and breakfast and beg on his knees for forgiveness.

But he will not.

She thinks he singled her out as extraordinary because he cannot believe an ordinary dwarf so capable, but the truth is much worse.

And despite all of the revaluations he has had this morning, it is the one truth he cannot face.

 

 

“You should talk to her.”

Solas’s pencil ricochets across the paper. He looks up to see Cole squatting on the scaffolding leftover from his last fresco, his otherworldly footsteps allowing him silent entrance. 

“As much as I appreciate your help,” he says, reaching for the eraser, “I do not need it.”

“You are miserable. Your hurt is old inside, vast across the Veil. She helped it, once. But now you are afraid.”

Solas erases the mark on his paper, which has slowly devolved from notes to mindless doodles. The fallout from their very first argument has nothing on these last two weeks. Sleep eludes him. He cannot focus, even in the stillness of the night, far away from her bombs. He misses her, deeply, but this renewed distance from her has shown him how truly dangerous she has become to him. It is best he stay away.

“If she isn’t extraordinary, then that makes her real. And if she’s real, then that means everyone is real. It changes everything, but it can’t . . . so you hide.”

Solas sighs and rubs a hand over his face.“This is not a pain you can heal, Cole. Please, let it go.”

His friend says nothing for a long moment. Then he hops down from the scaffolding and turns his head up to look at Solas from under his hat.

“You’re right. I cannot help you – only you can.” He lifts his head up, eyes barely visible under the brim of his hat. “If you would only stop being such a stubborn coward.”

Solas stares up at Cole, shocked into speechlessness. It is easy to forget, seeing Cole’s naive attempts to navigate the physical world, his awkward acts of kindness, that he is centuries old at least. But there is nothing naive in the quiet condemnation in his eyes.

He holds Solas’s gaze a moment longer before turning and melting into the shadows.

 

 

He promised himself that he would never again tread where Wisdom used to sit. It will take many, many decades before the energies of the Fade come together into another spirit, and until then he cannot bear to see it empty of their presence. But tonight, after he falls exhausted into a fitful sleep, he finds his footsteps wandering there almost without his consent. Gazing at the bench under the tree in perpetual spring, the grief lances through him. More than ever, he wishes he had their advice to consider.

The air above the bench shimmers and twists until two ghostly figures appear, echoes of a memory, drawn from his own desires. He and Wisdom sit just as they did before, the last time he saw them before their corruption. Solas does not need the faint echo of their voices to know the words spoken as they place their hand on his chest.

_ When it comes time for things to change, do not be hollow with nothing worth remembering. That is all the living have. _

He had listened to their advice the first time they gave it, but the meaning did not truly sink in until now. They were trying to warn him against doing the very thing he is doing to Shay right now: shunning attachments, investing everything in his solitude and pretending that it wasn’t slowly killing him. If he truly didn’t miss the companionship of others, then Shay’s friendship would not affect him so much. But he is like a plant kept in the dark too long, reaching for the sunlight.

_ Life is but a series of moments, and you have squandered enough of yours as it is _ .

It will hurt – unbearably so – when he sunders the Veil. He does not know what will happen in the chaos of the aftermath, not even if he survives long enough to see it. This time now is stolen, more precious than gold, and all he will have in that moment. He does not want it to be hollow and empty.

 

 

He stands before her door for a pathetically long time. A dozen reasons why he should not do this keep his hand paralyzed.

It’s too early and he doesn’t want to wake her.

It’s too late and she has already left for the day.

She opens the door only to slam it back into his face.

She lets him in and leads him to the balcony only to tip him over the edge.

His attempts to apologize only make things worse and she screams at him and  _ then _ tips him over the ledge.

But the thought of living through another day of her ignoring his existence is unbearable. Solas takes a deep breath and knocks three times.

His ears pick up the sound of rustling sheets, the creaking of the wood beneath her footsteps, faint grumbling about the hour. Nerves grip his insides, and he steels himself just as she flings the door open.

Shay squints at him, her braids hanging over her shoulders like frayed rope, as if he might be a dream.

“Solas?”

“May I speak with you?” he asks,.

She crosses her arms and says nothing at first. Her gaze falls over him, studying him from his eyes to his hands, clenched to keep from shaking. He has faced down the entire Evanuris and yet this conversation has him feeling like he might throw up.

“Please?” he adds softly.

An internal war is fought behind her eyes for a moment before she silently steps aside and opens the door wider. He is speechless in relief.

“Just so you know, if you piss me off you are not leaving this room by door,” she warns as he steps in side.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak just yet. Shay does not offer to sit by the fire nor does she head to the balcony. She hovers near the door, looking everywhere around the room but him.

“Well,” she says, after a moment of painfully awkward silence.

The first apology was easy because it was meaningless. He strung together pretty words with false sincerity in order to develop a relationship he could further exploit. Now his usual talent with words fails him in the face of raw reality.

“Shay, I am sorry. I deeply regret the way I expressed my sentiments to you. I was arrogant and foolish and . . . blinded by my lack of experience, and you were right to take offense to it.”

“Why are you just saying this now?” she asks.

“Cowardice,” he replies, swallowing. “Pride. Ignorance.”

“You’re not just saying this to get back into my good graces?”

Her arms stay crossed, defensive; her gaze piercing, seeking out any hint of deception. She ate every word when he fed her false sincerity and now, when he is painfully genuine, she trusts nothing. It almost makes him want to break into hysterical laughter.

The only thing that may work is to drop all pretense, all masks, and present himself unfiltered and unprotected. The thought alone is terrifying, but he cannot have her think him insincere.

“I went without company for so long I thought I no longer needed it. But I have been going mad these last two weeks without you. I miss our games, our conversations. I miss your laughter and your teasing. I  _ loathe _ not speaking to you almost as much as I hate the thought that I have hurt you with my own prejudice. If you want me to jump from this balcony to prove I am sincere, I will do it. If you want me on my knees, begging, I will do it. Whatever you want me to say, I will say it.”

“Anything?” she says, her eyes narrowing. “Get on your knees and tell me you’re a silly monkey and you miss your banana.”

He immediately kneels, putting himself roughly an inch under her eye level. “I am a silly monkey and I miss my banana.”

For a moment she just glares at him, but then giggles erupt from her, even as she tries to school her expression back into something stern. A smile breaks out on his own face, cautious but hopeful. They hold each other’s gaze and he watches the ice behind her eyes melt and soften.

Then, without warning, she leaps into his arms, and he wraps his arms around her without a thought. She is still warm from sleep, and he can smell the scent of her hair tonic and the faint dampness of her braids. Something in his chest unclenches and relaxes, and he savors this moment.

“I missed you, too,” she says in his ear. “Every day. It drove me crazy. I even drank the  _ maraas-lok  _ and Cassandra had to carry me to bed. She’s not as nice as you. She wouldn’t dance with me.”

Shay pulls back and Solas reluctantly allows her to step away from his embrace before he gets to his feet.

“I should have let you explain yourself,” she says, fidgeting with one of her braids. “You’re one of my closest friends – I should have given some benefit of the doubt instead of immediately attacking.”

He shakes his head. “If you had done that, I would have only dug myself in deeper. In that moment I was not ready to admit I was wrong.”

“It’s a hard thing to do. I appreciate it.”

“Not doing so is infinitely worse.”

“Yeah, this sucked pretty bad. I don’t want to ever fight like this again. I think we should make a pact right now.”

“And how would such a pact go?”

“I don’t know. It’s only going to get more insane from here on. People are going to spring decisions on me and you might not like them all. I just want us to be friends. No matter what happens in the future, we find a way to work it out. No more silent treatment. No more screaming. We cool our heads for a moment and then we talk like people who care about each other. Deal?”

She holds her hand out to shake.

Solas swallows hard. She has no idea what she asks of him, what she asks of herself. Will the pact still matter when he becomes a threat greater than Corypheus? Will she believe this moment cruel trickery when she looks back?

Will they still be two people who care for each other?

“You’re gonna leave me hanging?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“No, of course not,” he says, taking her hand in his.

The future is a worry for another time.

 

 

The journey to the Western Approach will take three weeks. It’s the farthest they have ever traveled for the Inquisition. Solas finds himself not particularly looking forward to the journey, but then remembers the restlessness he felt the last time he was left behind. Hawke and Alistair both join himself, Varric, and Cassandra for the trip.

Alistair Theirin looks every bit the part of the heroic Warden who stopped the Blight, and his head isn’t swelled with ten years of societies far and wide repeating tales of his adventures with increasing exaggeration. In fact, he seems exhausted by the whole ordeal and happy to move on. Solas cannot help but admire the wisdom and courage it took to recognize the wrongness of his Order and take action against it.

Hawke, on the other hand, seems like a teenager playing dress-up. Not because of her looks, exactly – she is terrifying in her height, the blunt messy cut of her short hair, the tattoo spread across her nose that resembles a blood stain – but in her attitude. Her personality is built from sarcasm, over-confidence to the point of satire, and the ability to bald-face lie about even the most trivial facts about her exploits, no matter how unrealistic it sounds. It’s hard to connect someone who takes so little seriously with the Champion who killed the Arishok with her bare hands.

It takes less than ten minutes for Cassandra to become utterly disgusted with her, something that Hawke takes as a point of pride, with how frequently she needles the Seeker.

Varric, however, could not be more content. Solas had an inkling of Varric’s loyalty to his friend, judging by how fiercely Varric hid information about Hawke in order to protect her. Just as he also suspected the toll that recent events had taken on Varric, despite the dwarf’s best efforts to hide it behind sarcastic jokes and card games.

But seeing Varric unfold like a flower in the sun next to her, the laugh creases that appear in the corners of his eyes, the way his shoulders relax, how easy laughter shakes loose from his chest, makes his previous loneliness even more obvious. They share the kind of easy camaraderie of two people who have seen every part of each other and accepted them all.

There can be no doubt this is the person Varric loves most in the world.

A part of Solas feels deeply envious of such a relationship.

“So here we are, elf, cleaning up another human’s mess,” Varric says, adjusting the reins of his horse. His short legs barely crest the sides and he sits in a custom saddle. His fear of horses is well known throughout the Inquisition, but it seems with Hawke at his side, Varric either has no fear or has learned to hide it well. His good mood is catching, and Solas finds himself nodding in mock solemnity.

“What would the Inquisition do without our stabilizing influence, Master Tethras?”

“I assume they’d just start burning things.” Varric gives Hawke a side-eyed glance, which the Champion of Kirkwall returns with a very rude hand gesture.

“That does sound like most humans I know,” Solas says.

Cassandra makes a noise of disgust. “If you gentlemen are quite finished?” she asks pointedly.

Varric puts his hands in the air in mock surrender. “Now now, don’t get touchy. We’re just here to lend you simple humans our help.”

“Before you cause everything to explode,” Solas adds.

“Again.”

They exchange glances, the corners of their mouths twitching in repressed grins as Hawke laughs in the background. Perhaps this journey will not be as wearing as Solas thinks.

 

 

As they get closer to their destination, the dirt becomes rockier, the plants stunted, the sun brighter. One morning the sun dawns bright and hot, the temperature already uncomfortable barely after breakfast. Before they set off for the day, Solas pulls Shay aside.

“Have you ever traveled in the desert before?”

“No,” she says. “It was always too far from home. Why?”

“Do you know how to take the proper precautions against the sun?”

“A hat? Solas, I see the sun every day. Why do I need to start taking precautions?”

He was afraid of this.

“The desert sun is more intense than your previous experiences; your skin will sizzle like the rotisserie pheasant Josephine had for her birthday.”

“So I should get a  _ large  _ hat?”

Solas straightens up and slips his hands from her face. “I can cast a barrier on your skin as protection if you will allow it.”

“Is this why your bald head’s never sizzled like a cracked egg?”

“Precisely.”

“I’m willing to bend to your expertise,” she says.

“For once.”

“For once,” she agrees, the corner of her mouth ticking up. “Just say when.”

“Now, before we head out for the day.”

He leans down before her, eye to eye. Freckles have already started to spread like spilled cinnamon across her already freckled cheeks.

“Hold still,” he murmurs and places the pads of his fingers at the edge of her hairline. He traces the lines of her face, casting a whisper thin barrier to glide invisibly over her delicate skin.

She closes her eyes the entire time. Even her lashes are dark red.

“Finished,” he murmurs.

Her eyes blink open and she smiles.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who gets freckles,” she says.

“Oh? I have freckles?”

“Oh, yeah. All right in here.”

Her fingers trace over bridge of his nose.

“If don’t believe me, you can borrow one of Dorian’s mirrors when we get back.”

He rubs a hand over his nose. “I haven’t had freckles since I was a boy.”

“Don’t worry, there’s not as many as mine,” she says.

“I think Harding is the only one who could possibly compete with you.”

Shay laughs. Out of the corner of gaze, Solas spots Varric and Hawke eyeing him with a kind of speculation that does not bode well at all. He straightens up, places his hands behind his back.

“Come to me each morning. I’ll reapply the spell.”

“Thanks, Solas.”

Oh, yes. Hawke and Varric are definitely whispering about them.

“My pleasure,” he says with a short bow.

He makes a mental note to reapply the spell to himself as well, as his face feels too warm.

 

 

“Giant-ass dragons. Poison gas. Crazed blood mages and demon armies. A thousand degrees by high noon and negative fifty by night. I’ve finally found a place worse than the Fallow Mire and it’s this shithole.”

Solas looks up from his pacing to see Shay silhouetted in the moonlight, which washes across the desert sand bright as daylight. He does not have it in him to muster up a smile or a sly comment in return. She stops next to him, looking out over the sand dunes, shivering underneath what looks like Varric’s coat.

“Okay. Spill it. What’s wrong? If you’re still pissed off about Erimond, don’t be. I’m going to execute that bastard if I ever get my hands on him.”

Solas waves an impatient hand. “He is the least of our worries at present. A vulture swooping down to take discarded remains. The Wardens are our real concern. We  _ cannot _ allow them to carry out their insane plan! To seek out these old Gods  _ deliberately,  _ in some bizarre attempt to preempt the Blight – it’s madness, it’s --”

“Hey. Whoa.” Shay’s hand shoots out and grabs his arm. “Calm down, alright? Leiliana probably heard you all the way back at Skyhold, and who knows what the hell is out here waiting to eat us.”

Solas takes a deep breath, unaware at how loudly he was shouting. “I apologize.”

“It’s alright. It’s going to be alright.  _ We _ are not going to let that happen. We are going to fix it –  _ together. _ ”

She says it so matter-of-factly, as if it’s the only obvious conclusion, and rubs her hand down his a few times like she’s calming a spooked horse.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment of composure. “I’ve been alone for so long, it’s difficult getting used to having the support of others.”

Even now, after a year of her friendship, it surprises him when she agrees with him. Probably because she disagrees with him just as often.

He shakes his head. “Those fools and duty. Responsibility is not expertise. Action is not inherently superior to inaction.”

Shay squeezes his arm and lets go.

“Careful, Solas, your lecturing grandpa side is starting to come out.”

“Forgive me,” he says, bowing his head. “The entire idea is . . . unnerving.”

No one but him knows what the Old Gods truly are, the power they hold . . . to kill one is a fool’s errand, even with a demon army, and the catastrophic destruction that would unleash when they failed to kill one . . .

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I get why they’re scared, but they’ve really fucked themselves this time. And just where in the  _ fuck _ is the Hero of Ferelden?”

“Not even she would be able to fight against the tide of fear and madness that has overwhelmed them. They would have exiled her just as they did Alistair.”

“Well, then at least I would have gotten to meet her. And have her autograph something. Several somethings.”

His eyebrows raise. “Autograph?”

“Um, hello, she is a  _ dwarf princess _ who killed an archdemon and lived to tell about it. Plus, she was able to bag someone as fine as Alistair. She’s, like, my idol.”

He does smile at that, the thought of a teenage Shay enraptured and inspired by stories of the Hero.

“Now you get to be the inspiration for others,” he says.

Shay pulls a face. “Ugh. No way. I am not role model material, Solas.”

“I beg to differ, but that is an argument for another time.”

“Yes. Like never. Anyway, now that I know you’re okay, we can get to the real question I have to ask you.”

“Oh? And what might that be.”

“On a scale of one to ten, how big do you think Cassandra’s crush on Alistair is?”

“I . . . have no idea.” The question takes him so aback that his mind blanks.

“Oh, come  _ on _ . There’s no way you haven’t noticed the entire three freaking weeks it took to get here?”

“Noticed what?”

“The sparring, trading war stories and childhood Chantry shenanigans, the way she chuckles at all his jokes. She has it  _ bad _ . Not that I can blame her, really.”

“I honestly didn’t notice.”

Shay smacks him lightly against the chest. “You’ve got to be more observant. How else are you going to make money in Varric’s bets?”

“Of course Varric has a bet on this.”

“Of course. How else are we going to survive in this godforsaken hellhole?”

 

Alistair volunteers to ride back to Skyhold and help Cullen organize their forces, as traveling constraints for the entire party would be a waste of time and resources. The rest of the party will remain to help the Inquisition take care of the myriad problems that crop up around every corner. He leaves at first light, taking a pack of supplies that Cassandra has gathered for him. She watches him ride off into the distance, fingers tucked gracefully under her chin, looking a little forlorn.

He steps up to her, alone in the gray morning light.

“You seem a little dismayed,” he says, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

“ _ Please _ tell me you are not involved in Varric’s stupid bet,” she says, giving him a sideways glare. “I  _ know _ exactly what he and Hawke are snickering about behind my back.”

“I have no knowledge of any bet,” he says primly, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’m just making an observation.”

“I admire his character and much prefer his company over Hawke’s devil-may-care . . . inanity. That does  _ not _ mean I have a – a crush.”

Even in the dim light he can see the red on her cheeks. “Is that why you are blushing?”

“It’s  _ sunburn _ ,” she snaps.

Solas smiles to himself. “Yes. Of course. Forgive me, Cassandra. I did not mean to overstep.”

Cassandra sighs. “No, I apologize for snapping. It’s just . . . nice when someone you admire actually lives up to your expectations. Alistair is a good man, and those are more rare than I realized.” She crosses her arms and looks down. “I also  _ hate it _ when he’s right, that damn dwarf.”

He knows she offers this all-but-a-confirmation, this vulnerable, embarrassing piece of her, in friendship and he cannot help but smile warmly at her.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he says. “And if you need help with your sunburn, I have a spell.”

 

She should look triumphant. Having slogged through countless demons in the fortress, survived falling physically into the Fade to tackle the literal embodiment of fear and thus severing Corypheus from his control of the Warden Mages and obliterating his demon army, Shay has earned her victory ten times over. Even now the whispers of her divinity are spreading through the ranks.

Instead she looks furious.

“Alistair is dead,” she says flatly, standing on a pedestal that barely put her at eye level and yet she looks no less intimidating. “Thanks to all of you. He  _ alone _ stood against Clarel and her insanity. If it wasn’t for him, we’d all be dead or enslaved to the Blight. And for what? So you could all brand him a traitor and hunt him down like a dog.”

That decision will haunt Shay for the rest of her days, but Solas knew she made the right choice. Just as she is making the right choice now to banish the rest of the Wardens. They can sense it, too, as the shamed silence that stretches between them indicates.

“Inquisitor.” One of the Wardens speaks up. “We have no one left of any significant rank . . . what do we  _ do? _ ”

It takes a measure of self control not to snort in derision. In one question he has revealed everything wrong with the Grey Wardens – so dependent on rank and orders and chains of command that they cannot think for themselves, that they follow blindly their leaders without reason, who are too high on their own self importance to ever question themselves.

Good riddance.

“ _ You _ are going to stick around and help clean up this mess, just like everybody else. Despite everything you’ve done to him and each other, Alistair died believing in you, in the goodness of your Order. I am giving you one final chance to prove him right, to live up to his sacrifice. Don’t screw it up.”

_ What _ ?

_ How _ ? Shay is not an idiot. How could she have come to such a conclusion after  _ everything _ that she’s witnessed from the Wardens? How can she not see that Alistair and her precious Hero of Ferelden are exceptions and not the rule?

He watches the crowd splinter off as Hawke, Varric, and Shay confer for a moment on future plans. Though Hawke and Varric’s constant banter had worn him rather thin the journey here, he must admit that he will miss her liveliness. And he will mourn the loss of Alistair, as he mourns the senseless loss of all good men. Varric escorts his friend from the courtyard, and Shay waves off the attentions of several Inquisition members as she walks away. Solas quickens his step to catch up with her.

“Shay, you are making a mistake,” he says, the words bursting from his lips.

“I’m sure you think so,” she says, not even looking at him.

“The Wardens are still vulnerable to Corypheus, not to mention the Venatori.”

“Yes, Solas, I  _ know _ .”

She tries to walk faster to escape him, but her shorter legs fail to make much progress.

“If you know the risks, then  _ how  _ can you possibly think allying ourselves with them will not come back to haunt us later?”

He stops in front of her under a narrow arch, blocking the staircase that rises past it.

“Really? You’re doing this  _ now _ , Solas?”

“It’s not too late to make you see reason,” he says, crossing his arms and planting his feet.

“Why are you so  _ pissed  _ about this?” she demands. “You’re acting ridiculous.”

“ _ I’m _ acting ridiculous?” he says. “You have put the entire Inquisition in danger for sentimentality! They are not heroes in a fairy tale. They corrupted themselves for power, they resorted to committing atrocities in order to save their own skin. They are not worthy of your forgiveness!”

“I know that they fucked up, okay? They  _ royally _ fucked up. They were terrified and desperate and they made a stupid mistake. And what, you're saying that they don't  _ deserve _ a chance to make up for it? That they should just go in exile and let their regret eat them alive forever while they do  _ nothing? _ Who the hell are you to decide who is worthy and who isn't?"

Her words hit him like a slap. They leave him soundless and after a moment Shay jabs her finger at him. 

"I am not letting you make me feel bad for this," she tells him. "I get that you don't like it. But I don't care. I trust Alistair’s judgment of them. And you should trust my judgment. Isn't that what you agreed to when you all made me the fucking Inquisitor?"

She pushes past him and up the stairs, muttering under her breath, leaving Solas alone with her words.

_ They were terrified and desperate and they made a mistake.   _

_ Who the hell are you to decide who is worthy and who isn't? _

He knows much more about desperate and stupid mistakes than anyone here. He practically invented them.  That alone should give him the perspective to decide on second chances.

And yet he can't really bring himself to believe that. His mistake destroyed the world. He should be the last person who passes judgment on bad decisions.

_ Fenedhis.  _ If Shay ever learns the extent of his own hypocrisy, no amount of magic would save him.

 

 

The first two days if their return journey to Skyhold, Shay remains unusually quiet and not just to him. They head out on a detour based on reports of a mysterious temple, and Shay pushes them on, barely stopping to rest in the midday heat.

They are all out of sorts – Varric’s jokes and stories have stemmed without Hawke to spur them on; Cassandra grows more impatient with their surroundings as she no doubt mourns the loss of Alistair, and Solas stews in all the new threats the Wardens pose to both the Inquisition and his plans for after.

The second night of their journey Solas gives up on sleep. Memories of the Nightmare’s realm, the words it spoke to him loop in his mind, taunting him. In that place, for the first time, the Fade did not feel like home. He could understand why the others fear it so much.

Instead he steps out of his tent into the cool night air to see Shay as the lone watchman by the fire. He takes a seat beside her. Her hair is down in two simple braids.

“Trouble sleeping?” he asks softly.

Shay pokes the fire listlessly with a stick, her chin resting in her hands. “Turns out you don’t have to go to sleep to have nightmares.”

“I would have helped you sleep if you had asked.”

She snorts. “How? By lecturing me until I fell asleep just to get away?”

Guilt curls in his stomach. Other than himself and Mythal, Shay is the only being able to shame him in this way. It's infuriating.

"I apologize for my harsh words earlier," he says. "My opinion could have been expressed calmly and at at a better time."

"Like never.”

She pulls out her stick from the fire and holds it close to her face, the firelight reflecting in her eyes, casting a warm, almost ethereal glow across her face.

He reaches around for his own stick to poke the fire with. As childish as it may seem, there is something soothing about the flame, the sound and the scent of it, the way it moves.

“Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean that. I value your opinion, even when we don’t agree.”

"And I yours. You were right. I should've trusted you. I let my emotions get the best of me."

"And I . . . should have probably thought about my decision more before I made it," Shay admits. "I had just gotten out of the Fade. They could have given me five fucking minutes."

She snuffs the flame out with one sharp breath.

“You know, I wasn’t being sentimental about the Wardens. I want them around because I don’t trust them to be under their own supervision. That’s how we got this mess to start with. I thought I could put them to work  _ and _ make sure they don’t do anything stupid.”

“It was a smart decision,” Solas says. “I was the one reacting emotionally. You know, even when we disagree, I am still impressed by your leadership.”

She shrugs, jabbing the stick back into the fire. “Maybe. We’ll see, I guess.”

They sit, quiet, for a while. Solas admiring the stars, the gentle desert wind, the way Shay’s hair glows like embers in the light. But judging by the dark expression on her face, Shay cannot enjoy this peace.

“Something troubles you,” he remarks.

“I think after what we just went through, we are all troubled,” she says.

“I’m not concerned with everyone else.”

She says nothing for a long moment, prodding an ember until it breaks into ash.

“I think I liked it better when I couldn’t remember. I didn’t have to feel responsible.”

“You aren’t responsible,” he says immediately.

"She sacrificed herself for me. The whole world is a mess because she's gone. I am definitely responsible."

"If you hadn't intervened, if you hadn't grabbed the orb --"  _ My plans would have doomed the world a second time. _ "--we would have no hope. She did the right thing."

"Well, it feels shitty. I don't like being responsible for people's deaths." She swallows thickly. "I don't like being asked to choose. There's no right answer."

She must be referring to Alistair. 

"It was not a fair decision," he says softly, laying a hand on her shoulder. "You did the best you could."

"The best would have been to get them both the hell out of there," Shay says. 

"Part of leading is making difficult decisions. Impossible choices. Indecision could have cost you all three of your lives."

Shay laughs, bitter and caustic. "Do you want to know how I picked? It had nothing to do with who deserved what, who would make a better impact, or any of that shit. I just looked at Hawke and my first thought was that I couldn't do that to Varric. I couldn't hurt him like that, not when he was standing  _ right there _ . I didn't think about anything, I just made choices based on my emotions. I played favorites. That's not a great leader."

Though keeping Alistair would have been the better choice, seeing how much the Wardens need his stabilizing influence, Solas cannot say for sure if he would have not made the same decision as Shay. The loss of Hawke would mostly like destroy Varric, and his witnessing the Inquisitor doom Hawke to self-sacrifice would likely to cause a rift that could never be fixed.

"I would rather have a leader who cares than a leader who reduces their followers to tactics."

“And I didn't like the Fade that time either. It looked nothing like the way you show it to me."

"I shape the Fade for you," Solas says. "It is not always a happy place."

"So that part of the Fade is what you see all the time, when you're not fixing it for me?"

"No.” Solas fights off a grimace. “We were in the realm of the Nightmare. It was not supposed to be pleasant."

"Next time I want to visit the realm of sunshine and daisies."

He gives her a small smile. "I think I can provide such a thing."

 

 

The mysterious temple is, of course, infested with demons. Shay does not seem the least bit deterred. In fact, she is downright giddy, despite the general disturbing aura that permeates the place. Even the pride demon at the end could not stem her joy. After they have looted every crack and crevice, they take refuge in the oasis just outside the entrance of the temple. Shay and Varric head over to a flat, shady area to count and organize the coin, runes, and weapons they have found.

“This place is  _ loaded _ ,” Shay squeals. “I feel like I’m in one of those cheesy adventure novels. You ever write one of those, Varric?”

“I thought about it a lot,” says Varric. “Those can sell really well, if you do it right. But that involves researching all the creepy caves and abandoned temples, and I had no intentions of leaving Kirkwall.”

“By the time we get done with Corypheus, you’ll have enough material for a whole series,” Shay points.

“No shit.” Varric hand drifts to idly stroke his chin, a habit he has when he starts getting lost in thought. “Hmmmm. What type would make a good protagonist? A Cullen type – fearless in the wilderness, scared shitless of the ladies? Or maybe Dorian – cool and cocky under pressure, hiding a secret pain from his past?”

“What about Solas?” Shay asks.

Varric pauses for a brief moment and then bursts into laughter.

“What?” Shay demands. “I think he’d be a good adventurer!”

“As much as I don’t desire my likeness slapped on the cover of a lurid paperback, I find your disbelief almost offensive,” says Solas.

“He’s got the history background, he does all kinds of weird magic shit, he nerds out with research,” Shay explains, and he’s nearly flattered by her enthusiasm with his personality as a heroic character. 

“Yeah, I’ll humor you,” says Varric. “What would be his major flaw? Every hero’s got to have at least one.”

“Oh, that’s easy – he’s so much of a sheltered, arrogant jackass that his people skills are shit.”

And there goes the flattery.

“You just might be onto something, Shay.” Varric wags his finger at her.

She grins. “You’ll be famous, Solas. Make sure he’s bald in the book, too. That look is iconic.”

“What if we added a hat? That wouldn’t make his ears stick out too much, would it?”

They both look over speculatively at him.

“No,” he says. “I am not trying on hats. In fact, I do not consent to this entire endeavor.”

Varric just flaps a dismissive hand at him. “Good luck finding a lawyer who can take on my publisher.”

Shaking his head, Solas steps away towards the pool that surrounds them. He unwinds his foot wraps, rolls up his leggings, and wades into the water, gathering the blood lotus that grows near the shore. Cassandra sits against the side of the rock structure that stands in the middle of the pool, her own boots stacked neatly beside her, her feet making idle circles in the water. She looks lost in thought for a moment before the sound of his sloshing startles.

“I heard their plans for you,” she says, the side of her mouth curling wryly. “I have to admit, it’s easy to picture you as a dashing adventurer.”

“Even with the hat?” he asks.

She pulls a face. “Perhaps not the hat.”

“Coming from you, I will take that as flattery.”

“Is it enough to get me the first signed copy?”

“As if I would sign a copy for anyone else.”

Her smirk softens into fondness, and then after a moment it smooths into something hesitant.

“Solas, can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he says. “You needn’t ask.”

“The spirit we encountered in the Fade . . .  _ could _ it have been Justinia?”

The hope that breaks through her restraint is nearly enough to break his heart. It’s easy to forget how close Cassandra was to the Divine, if only because she rarely speaks of it. He wades over to her and sits beside her.

“If you are looking for certainty, Cassandra, I cannot give it to you,” he tells her gently.

The Seeker swallows and looks down at her hands. “She helped the Inquisitor – just as Justinia would have.”

“Then, spirit or no, her actions are worthy of respect.”

It is a paltry comfort, barely able to be qualified as such, but it is all he has to offer her.

“I suppose that is all we will ever know.”

Cassandra sighs, deeply, and closes her eyes. Solas takes a risk and lays his hand hesitantly upon her shoulder. When she opens her eyes again, the vulnerability that had laid raw upon her face has retreated back behind her resolve.

“Thank you, Solas,” she says.

“I’m sorry I cannot offer you more hope,” he says.

She reaches up and pats his hand with her own. “It means much to me all the same.”

 

 

As the afternoon starts to melt into evenings, Shay attempts to climb up the rock structure, but her arms fall just short of the ledge she needs to pull herself up.

“Come here, Solas, and make yourself useful.” she says through gritted teeth.

“I live to serve,” he says, approaching her with his hands behind his back. “How may I assist you?”

“Pick me up, smart ass. I’m so close, I just need a boost.”

His eyebrows raise. “Pick you up?”

“Yes. Unless you can’t handle it. I mean, I guess mages don’t need to improve their upper body strength. In which case, you should go drag Cassandra out of her reading nook.”

“I have the upper body strength,” he says, vaguely offended. “I carried you up to your room, remember?”

“I don’t remember, actually. I was too drunk.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, hold still.”

He lifts her up from behind, his body acting as a stabilizing force as she braces her feet against the rock face. Eventually he is forced to provide an extra push on her . . . lower exterior, both hands pressed against her in a way that he  _ prays _ Varric doesn’t witness. Thankfully she scurries up the rest of the way quickly after that.

“You should join me,” she calls down. “The view of the sunset is spectacular.”

Solas presses a hand against his cheek that feels hot in a way that has nothing to do with the sun.

“In a moment,” he says.

It takes seconds for his long limbs to travel up to the top. Shay watches him with clear envy on her face, but she scoots over and pats the place beside her nonetheless. The colors of the sky bleed into one another like paint in a watercolor. It makes the artist side of Solas itch for his paint, but he knows from experience that he could never do it justice.

Shay stretches out and lays beside him, her head resting on his thigh.

“So which came first,” she asks. “Solas or the Solasan temple?”

“I know you think I’m old, but I’m not  _ that _ old,” he says.

He is that old. Older, even. Truly, when Shay finds out the truth of him, the mockery will never end.

“Solas is not just a name, it’s also an elvhen word.”

“Meaning . . .”

“Pride,” he admits with some hesitation.

Shay throws back her head and laughs. This close he can see the beginnings of laughter lines in the creases of her eyes. “Oh my God, of course it does. Of course it does.”

“I suppose it is rather fitting,” he says, smiling. “It’s no coincidence that a spirit of Wisdom can be corrupted into a demon of pride. Sometimes the acquisition of some knowledge causes us the belief that we have all of it.”

She pats his thigh with easy affection. “Well, sweetie, at least you are aware of yourself.”

“Thanks, in great part, to you and your willingness to point out of my flaws.”

“It’s a difficult job, but somebody’s got to do it.”

They watch the sky change and melt and darken, a phenomenon that happens every day, and yet Solas so rarely takes the time to enjoy it. Shay hums something vague and indistinct under her breath.

“I saw what was on your tombstone,” she says. “It said you were most afraid of dying alone.”

The stars have begun winking into existence and the temperature starts dropping dramatically. She looks up at him with the the gaze of someone who knows the weight of the secret they learned.

“I just want you to know, it’s not going to happen. You’ll either go out in a blaze of glory while I extract vengeance on your behalf or you’ll die an old man in your bed while I read you bedtime stories with stupid voices.”

Oh, if only that were so. Still, the sentiment warms him, spurs him to reach down his hand to briefly cup her cheek.

“Thank you, Shay. It is more of a comfort than you realize.”

She shrugs, suddenly self-conscious, and gets to her feet. “Come on. I’m freezing and starving. Hopefully Harding cooked up her rabbit stew.”

Solas stands up, brushing the dirt from his leggings.

“What was yours?” he asks, the question surprising even him. “Your tombstone?”

“Betrayal,” she says before hopping over the edge.

Solas closes his eyes a moment and swallows.

Of course it is. Of course. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long. But summer is so close I can smell it and it does not smell like my classroom.


	7. Chapter 7

“No!”

“But you _like_ demons!”

Cole follows him down the main steps into the courtyard, begging for something he does not understand.

“I enjoy the company of spirits, yes, which is why I don’t abuse them with bindings,” he snaps.

“It isn’t abuse if I _ask_.”

Solas stops cold in his tracks at such a statement.

“Not always true,” he says softly, turning around.

This is exactly why he will not bind Cole – he is too naive, too trusting. He has no idea the implications of what he wants nor the consequences if someone abuses his trust. And to think that he asks this of _Solas,_ the one person actively deceiving the entire world in order to bring about its destruction at the first opportunity, is proof that Cole is desperate from fear and not thinking clearly.

“Not to mention that I do not practice blood magic, which renders this entire conversation academic.”

“Blood magic?” Shay steps towards them from the direction of the tavern. “What’s . . . going on here?”

Cole turns to her immediately.

“He won’t bind me! He’s a mage and he likes demons but he won’t help.”

Shay looks between the two of them, eyebrows furrowed. “Why . . . do you _want_ Solas to bind you?”

“So I’m safe!” Cole throws his arms in the air in exasperation and takes several steps off to the side. “If Solas won’t do the ritual to bind me, then someone else could. _Will!_ Just like the Warden Mages. And then . . . I’m not _me_ anymore.” He ducks his head down, his hands shaking. “Walls around what I want. Blocking. Bleeding. _Making me a monster_.”

“A mage using blood magic could do that to any one of us,” Shay points out and Solas throws a warning look to her.

“You should get Solas to bind you too! And then someone else can bind _him_ \--”

Shay shoots him a sheepish look before she reaches out and grabs Cole’s arm to stop his pacing, rubbing her hand soothingly up and down his arm.

“Cole, honey, there has got to be some kind of middle ground between _do nothing_ and _bind Cole with blood magic_ , okay? Solas?”

She looks at him expectantly, and Solas is happy to interject.

“I have a suggestion, _if_ Cole is ready to listen.”

Cole stares at his feet, mulishly silent.

“I recall stories of amulets, used by Rivaini seers to protect spirits they summoned from rival mages.”

He recalled no such thing. Such practice used to be elvhen until it filtered down to Rivain. But Shay doesn’t look ready to question it in her eagerness to find a solution and calm down Cole.

“A spirit wearing the amulet would be immune to blood magic and binding. It should protect Cole as well. The resources of the Inquisition could be used to find such a talisman.”

“See?” Shay says brightly, patting his chest. “Perfect.”

But Cole has not relaxed.

“Good,” he mutters, stalking off towards the tavern. “They will not take me.”

Shay watches him leave for a moment and then looks up at him.

“What the hell brought that on?”

“I do not know,” he replies. “I’ve noticed him being rather distant and quiet since our return, but he said nothing until earlier when he appeared in my room and demanded that I commit a blood magic ritual.”

“The Grey Wardens must have really freaked him out. How hard do you think it’s going to be to find that amulet?”

“Not long, if one knows where to look.”

She gives him that look, the one of knowing suspicion. “You know, I’m not going to ask any questions. Just make sure you can get a hold of one as soon as you can. I’ve never seen Cole act like that.”

“Yes, I do not like to see him so troubled.”

 

Like startled halla, Cole responds to patient waiting more than pursuit. Solas makes himself comfortable in his atrium with a book and his sketches until his friend appears, some time past midnight, long after everyone above has gone to bed. He stands over the couch Solas sleeps on, hatless, his face cased in shadow.

Solas sits up immediately.

“I’m sorry,” Cole says softly. “I should not have asked that of you. I . . . was afraid.” he swallows and corrects himself. “Am afraid.”

“It is alright,” Solas says. “There’s no need for apologies, Cole. You have every right to be afraid. But neither I nor the Inquisitor will let anything happen to you. You have to trust in that.”

“Yes . . . I know. I only hope it doesn’t come too late. I don’t want to hurt innocent people again. I’m supposed to help the hurting, not hurt the helpless.”

“It will not come to that. I promise you.”

Cole nods, but he still looks lost. Solas pats the spot next to him, and the spirit curls up there, chin resting on his knees.

“Does the Inquisitor know about your past?”

Cole shakes his head. “I don’t want her to be afraid of me.”

The Ghost of the Spire is definitely not a story that needs to make its rounds in Skyhold. Their companions project enough of their fear upon Cole as it is; they would not understand the nuances of Cole’s “mercy” towards the mages in the White Spire and neither would they believe his guilt over it. However . . .

“I think out of all the people, she would be the most understanding,” he says.

“It’s not worth the risk. And I . . . I don’t want to remember it anymore.”

“It is better to settle it sooner rather than later. The past always finds a way of haunting us,” Solas warns.

 

He knew it would not take long. Shay has many black market contacts on top of the Inquisition’s legitimate resources. Just short of two weeks later, Cole marches into the atrium, Shay trailing behind him.

“What do I do with it” he asks without preamble.

Solas stands from his desk. “You found one of the amulets? Excellent. May I see it?”

Cole hands it to him and Solas inspects it. It resembles the ones he’s seen in the Fade and seems legitimate enough.

“The work is simple,” Solas explains. “You put it on, I charge it with magic, and you should be protected.”

“That’s it?” Shay asks. “That can’t be right. It’s too easy. Stuff never just _works,_ especially magic.”

He tosses her a look over Cole, amused at her ignorance. “Have some faith, Inquisitor.”

Hand outstretched, Solas closes his eyes and focuses his magic. It reaches the amulet and then . . . stops. He pushes harder, but it feels like his magic crashes into it like a wave against the cliffs and recoils.

Cole cries out, stumbling backwards, and his pain alerts Varric, who walks in looking alarmed.

“What was that?” He takes one look at Solas and Cole and rolls his eyes. “Oh for –! What are you doing to the kid?”

 _The kid_. Varric’s nicknames are meant to irritate, but this one chafes Solas more so than the others. It’s obscures Cole’s true nature in order to make him seem more palatable to those unused to spirits.

Cole immediately turns around. As much as he has turned to Solas for guidance, he is equally happy for Varric’s company.

“Stopping blood mages from binding me like they did the demons at Adamant. But it didn’t work.”

Cole is not accusing Solas, but the disappointment in his voice still causes Solas to flinch.

“There is something interfering with the enchantment,” Solas explains.

He doesn’t look at Shay, precisely because of the smirk he has no doubt is playing on her face right now. But he can’t escape it because Varric folds his arms and looks at Solas with similar smugness.

“Something like Cole not really being a demon?” he offers with false nonchalance.

Shay turns to him, her curiosity lit in her eyes. “Could that be possible? Is Cole too human for it to work?”

Solas’s hackles rise at how quickly they both are to cling to the possibility that Cole could be something familiar to them, rather than accepting his strange nature.

“Regardless of Cole’s special circumstances, he remains a spirit.”

“Yes,” says Varric. “A spirit who is strangely like a person.”

The measured, patronizing tone in Varric’s voice makes Solas want to commit violence.

“I don’t matter!” Cole cries, clenching his fists and walking away. “Just lock away the parts of me that someone could knot together to make me follow.”

Solas follows him, feeling guilty. Too caught up in his own battle of wills with Varric, he has forgotten how genuinely distressed Cole is at this issue.

“Focus on the amulet,” he tells Cole softly. “Tell me what you feel.”

Perhaps Cole’s unique perspective will shed some light on the problem.

“Warm, soft blanket covering,” Cole says after a moment. “But it catches, tears. I’m the wrong shape. There’s something . . .” he turns and points to the west. “There. That way.”

“Well,” says Shay brightly. “It’s seems we’ve got an adventure waiting. I told you it never just works,” she adds to Solas.

There it is.

“Alright, kid,” says Varric. “Go get Cullen and work with him on the map to figure out where you’re sensing something wrong.”

Cole looks at them hopefully. “Will you come? All of you?”

“Sure,” says Varric and this time Solas doesn’t mind the dwarf speaking for him.

Still, he watches Cole leave with unease. Varric gives him a knowing look as he sidles closer to Solas.

“Alright. I get it. You like spirits,” he says and to Solas’s surprise, there is none of his earlier self-satisfaction in his voice. “But he came into the world to be a person. Let him be one.”

Solas turns to Shay, hoping against hope that she isn’t listening to this, but the conflict written in her eyes makes his stomach sink.

“If we can find a way to protect Cole without taking away . . . whatever the hell he is, I’ll take it,” she says. “But bottom line is we have to help Cole, no matter what it does.”

“I’m not saying we do nothing,” says Varric. “But that ritual only works on demons, right?”

Solas fights the urge to roll his eyes. “This is not some fanciful story, Varric. We cannot change our nature simply by wishing it.”

“You don’t think?”

Varric’s gaze is steady, clear, devoid of any insecurity that would make him lash out or argue. It makes a small part of Solas doubt himself, and he hates it.

So he changes the subject.

“However we deal with the problem, our next step is to track down whatever is interfering with the enchantment.”

“Naturally,” says Varric. “I’ll go check on the maps.”

As he leaves the room, Solas looks over to see Shay grinning and shaking her head.

“What, exactly, do you find so amusing?”

“You,” she says. “The both of you, strutting around and arguing over who gets to be Cole’s favorite dad. It’s adorable. And ridiculous.”

He glares at her. “You’re right, that _is_ ridiculous. I’m simply trying to preserve and protect Cole’s unique nature. Shay, he is not human, no matter what he appears to be.”

She bites her lip. “Well he’s not all spirit, either. I don’t know how long he can keep straddling the middle. He might have to choose.”

“We shall see.”

She steps closer and squeezes his arm, offering him a reassuring smile. “You worry too much, _Dad._ Everything’s going to be alright.”

 

When Cole goes with Varric, Solas can only follow with resignation. He had very little hope that Shay would side with him ever since their first conversation about it. Despite her experiences, the recovery of her memories, and all she has learned, Shay still does not truly understand the nature of spirits. Cole looks human, sometimes he sounds human, and neither she nor Varric can see otherwise.

“Sorry isn’t going to help him now, is it kid?” Varric says, loud enough to be heard by Solas and Shay and he sounds like he’s on the stage, performing.

“No.” The anger in Cole’s voice sounds wrong and Solas hates it.

“Here kid,” Varric says, placing the crossbow in Cole’s arms. “Pull the trigger and put him down like a mad dog.”

Despite Varric’s reassurances, Solas’s stomach twists in knots, dreading this moment. His friend has killed before, many times, but only out of a perceived sense of mercy. Cole has never murdered out of anger, out of vengeance. Solas cannot bear to watch another spirit distort itself into a monster.

Cole pulls the trigger, and Solas flinches. But nothing happens. The crossbow isn’t loaded.

“Feel any better?” Varric asks.

“No.” Cole spits the word out, his voice shaking.

“You can’t make it all just go away,” Varric says softly. “I learned that the hard way.”

The words embed themselves deep in Solas’s chest as if Varric had shot them. Cole reaches a hand out – his instinct to erase what hurts others to know – and Varric gently pulls his hand down.

“No. He needs to remember. You, too. We’re done here.”

 

Solas rides ahead of them to Skyhold, and Shay lets him without a word. He needs space to think and, quite honestly, to process his anger. What was done to Cole cannot be undone. He can never return to his original state, and he has no idea what the long term consequences of such a decision could be.

All because Shay wouldn’t _listen_ to him! He knows that somewhere, deep down, part of her can’t trust him, but at least she used to listen. How could he have ever thought her easily manipulated in those first few weeks? She’s as stubborn as he is. Perhaps he should start agreeing with her – then maybe she will do the opposite just to spite him and he can get something accomplished.

When he finally arrives at Skyhold he puts up his horse and makes his way to the atrium before the rest of them can reach the gates.

No one disturbs him.

No one, that is, until some time past midnight, when a loud thud and a hissed curse word startles him from his sleep. He sits up, mage light flaring to life, which illuminates Shay’s form, hunched over and rubbing her shin. His chair sits askew beside her.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” she replies, somewhat acidly. “I thought you were going to be awake. I need your help with something downstairs.”

“In the middle of the night?” he asks flatly.

“Yep. Very important. Could be the difference between destroying Corypheus and having the world end.”

He does not believe a word of this. She definitely has something up her sleeve, and he’s tempted to refuse her game and go back to sleep. But he remembers their truce, and she has given him space as promised. Now all that’s left is to discuss the problem, like mature adults. Or so they agreed.

So he sighs, pulls away at the blanket, and gets to his feet. Shay grins at him, and he detects a hint of fragile relief in it that immediately makes him feel guilty for ever considering turning her down.

They forgo the torch in favor of the mage light in his hand and creep down the kitchen stairs. Shay makes an immediate beeline to the pantry and fishes out a covered platter. She brings it to the rough hewn table in the middle and climbs up on one of the stools, her legs dangling above the floor.

“I need your help finishing this,” she says, snatching the lid off to reveal a half-eaten chocolate cake.

“ _That’s_ your important task?” Solas asks somewhat dryly. “This is what will be the difference between defeating Corypheus and losing?”

“Well, yeah. See, if I eat this whole thing, I’m going to gain weight. And if I gain weight, I won’t be able to fit in my armor anymore. If I can’t fit into my armor, I have to get Dagna to make me new armor, and in that waiting period we could be attacked and I would be killed because I don’t have my armor. And if I die, the rifts take over and demons invade Thedas, yadda yadda yadda. You get the picture.”

“You could just not eat the cake.”

“Yeah, that’s not an option, Solas. It’s my birthday cake.”

“ . . . It’s your birthday?”

Shay cuts herself a fat piece of cake and slides the knife over to Solas.

“Yesterday, technically.”

Yesterday, when Solas rode ahead of her and refused to speak to or even acknowledge her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking down. “I didn’t know.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t plan on anyone knowing, but between Leliana, Varric, and Josephine, I have no secrets apparently.”

Shay takes a bite of her the cake, not bothering with plates or forks.

“Now that your secret is out, do you plan on celebrating?”

She shrugs. “I would bet serious money that Josephine has already planned something out as a surprise.”

“That does sound like her.”

Solas starts to cut himself a modest slice and Shay shakes her head.

“Bigger than that. You’re supposed to be helping me, remember? Besides, we all know you love this stuff as much as I do.”

Repressing a smile, Solas cuts himself a larger piece and eats it like she does, not troubling himself with plates or utensils.

“My most important contribution to the Inquisition,” he says, only a hint of bitterness seeping through.

“One of them at least.”

For a long moment they eat their cake in silence. He knows Shay didn’t bring him down here just to share her cake with him, but it certainly provides a good distraction while he waits her out. He expects some kind of chastising for his tantrum, for lack of a better term, but once again, Shay surprises him.

“I know you think I don’t value your opinion,” she says quietly.

He freezes, cake halfway to his mouth, and sets it down. “That’s not true,” he tries.

She throws him a skeptical look. “Yes it is. I can see it in your face every time we disagree. Especially this last time.”

Solas swallows and preoccupies himself with scraping the crumbs from his slice off the table.

“We are simply two people with very different world views. Any personal offense I would take over your decisions would be childish and quickly dismissed.”

“Okay, first of all, your feelings are not childish,” she says, pointing her finger at him. “You’re allowed to be upset. You can’t swallow that stuff down all the time and not have, like, a heart attack or something. And secondly, I need that different world view. I need the people around me to have different experiences and perspectives because I don’t know everything and I never thought that I did, but people expect me to make all these decisions like I do. If you haven’t noticed, Solas, I take you with me pretty much everywhere I go.”

“With the exception of Crestwood,” he points out.

“Yeah, and it sucked. I hated it. You have no idea how much I rely on you. It’s probably an unhealthy amount. Just because I don’t agree with you or do what you say doesn’t mean I’m not listening.”

“Does listening matter, if the end result is the same?” he asks.

The question surprises him. He did not mean to let it slip out, and now he cannot take it back. Shay finishes off the last bite of her cake and rests her chin in her hands, looking at him expectantly.

“You’re still pissed about Cole. Well, come on. Let’s hear it. Get it out.”

“I assure you, I have no issue.”

“You’re lying. We made a pact, and you refusing to talk to me about this is violating it.”

“Is it now?”

“ _Yes._ It is.” She leans back and folds her arms. “Come on, I’ve yelled at you a dozen times. Now it’s your turn.”

Shay stares at him resolutely, and there is no fighting that mulish expression on her face. He breathes forcefully from his nose, a snort of irritation.

“If different perspectives matter to you, then you wouldn’t discard my council on spirits so easily in favor of someone who knows nothing about them. And yet, that’s exactly what you did. My opinions on Wardens or mages or Corypheus can be given the same weight as anyone else here, but I alone have sought out the company of spirits and I alone understand them. Your sentiment of valuing my experience rings rather hollow as a result.”

There. He said it. It’s out there. He does not want yet another fight with her, but she quite literally asked for it. However, she does not look angry, and he doesn’t know if that bodes well or poorly for him.

“I didn’t discard your advice in favor of Varric’s,” she says. “I went over both your heads and asked Cole what he wanted. He told me he wanted to be human. I didn’t make that decision. He did.”

“This is the same individual who asked me to commit blood magic. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for,” says Solas. “You wouldn’t ask a child to make an irreversible, life-altering decision about themselves.”

“Nobody knows what they’re asking for, Solas. That’s life. And Cole isn’t a child. He’s hundreds, maybe even thousands of years old. He’s seen history played out in the Fade just as you have. But you know what you’re talking about and he doesn’t?”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t be vulnerable. How can you know for certain that Cole’s decision does not stem from the desire to make himself more acceptable to the others? That he has sensed their discomfort around him and wants to change accordingly?”

“I can’t,” she says. “You might be right. Cole might be making a huge mistake out of some misguided attempt to help. But no matter what the hell Cole is, he has the right to decide for himself. And that includes making colossal mistakes just like the rest of us. No one has the right to take that away from him – not you and certainly not me.”

“I’m not trying to control him,” he protests. “I’m trying to --”

“-- protect him,” she finishes gently. She stretches out her arm and lays her hand on his own on the table. “I don’t think your reaction to this is about Cole at all, and I don’t think you realize it.”

“Please. Enlighten me.”

“Wisdom,” she says simply.

He stares at her. “I don’t see Cole as a replacement for Wisdom.”

“Maybe not her, specifically. But you miss having spirit friends, and a part of you has hoped that Cole could fill that void. Him choosing to be more human destroys that, and now you don’t know how to relate to him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “Well-meaning, but absurd.”

She shrugs, not offended. “It might be. Even so, it’s something to think about.”

She takes the knife and cuts herself a second, slightly smaller piece of cake and slides off the stool. “This one’s for the road. I’m heading to bed. Help yourself to another slice if you want.”

“Thank you,” he says, deeply tempted despite himself.

She lingers near the table and sighs. “Look, as far as Cole is concerned, he’s still really fucking weird. He still speaks in riddles and spouts off people’s darkest secrets and makes everyone around him uncomfortable. He’s still obsessed with helping even if it means crossing some serious social boundaries in order to do so. He’s not going to change as much as you think he is.”

“Only time will tell,” he says. “It is something we shall have to see for ourselves.”

“Goodnight, Solas.”

“Sleep well, Shay.”

He stays downstairs in the dark, nibbling on another slice of cake because it’s been so very long since he enjoyed the delights of desserts. In another couple of hours the cooks will arrive to start the morning bread, but for now it’s silent, and he feels safely hidden deep under the fortress.

As usual, Shay’s words linger in his thoughts.

As much as he wants to deny it, some part of him assumed responsibility over Cole. The spirit came to this world so earnest and yet so ignorant. He had looked to Solas for understanding, and Solas was more than happy to guide him. Even so recently, when Cole feared possession, he marched straight to Solas for help.

But now Cole has experience. He has companions – like Varric -- that offer him a multitude of viewpoints. Perhaps it is time he exercises his independence. Perhaps Solas should let him go. 

Let him go . . . 

Solas sighs and leans against the table. It shouldn't feel like loss to see Cole made more human. And yet it does, because Shay is right. 

 _Fenedhis_.

He misses the companionship of spirits, the way they understand him and accept him.  

He misses Wisdom.

 

Though Cole is no longer able to slip in and out of rooms completely unseen, he is still preternaturally quiet. When he appears on the other side of the table, Solas nearly jumps out of his skin.

“I told Josephine about Shay’s birthday,” he admits without preamble.

Solas swallows, trying to calm his racing heart. “She did not want anyone to know.”

“Her father threw her a birthday party every year. He surprised her with flowers in her room before she woke up. The earrings she wears are the last gift he ever gave her and she never takes them out.”

_I didn’t plan on anyone knowing._

“Perhaps celebrating it will only bring back painful memories,” Solas points out.

Cole shakes his head. “She isn’t used to having to ask for acknowledgment and she doesn’t know how.”

_My dad was like that. He knew me better than anyone._

Solas feels a swell of unexpected grief for her, and he resolves to find a gift of some kind for her.

“I’m glad you are able to still sense those kinds of feelings in others,” he says. “It would be a shame to see it fade away.”

Cole gives him such a penetrating look that Solas drops his gaze back down to his cake.

“I am never going to be truly human,” he says softly. “You do not have to be afraid of losing me. But I am afraid of losing you.”

Solas snaps his head up at that.

“You are worried about the others’ inability to accept me as a spirit. But what if you cannot accept me as a human?”

“I --”

“It was my decision. You cannot blame Varric or Shay. If you are angry, it must be at me.”

Words fail him in the face of the shame that floods him. Shay was right – this was never about Cole, and Solas’s selfishness has only hurt him in a time when he needed support and love.

“I’m sorry,” he says, swallowing. “I am not angry with you. If this decision makes you happy, then I will do nothing but support it.”

“Thank you,” says Cole, and Solas feels another stab of guilt at the relief in his friend’s voice. “I will still need you, Solas. You explain things the best. You see what I don’t.”

“You don’t need to offer me comfort, Cole.” He doesn’t really deserve it.

As if hearing that thought, Cole cocks his head to the side, his gaze soft and his understanding never chafing like pity.

“But I always will.”

 

Solas ends up escorting Shay to her own surprise party. She slips in the atrium just after sundown, a bemused expression on her face.

“Have you noticed,” she says, leaning against his desk, “that the smell of cake has permeated this floor? And everyone seems to be mysteriously missing even though it’s dinner time?”

“Very peculiar,” he says, looking up from his book. “It seems that something is afoot.”

“Since I’m the Inquisitor, I should probably check it out.”

“Indeed. Would you like for me to accompany you? It wouldn’t do for you to face the danger alone.”

A smile, warm and bright, spreads across her face.

“Absolutely. Never know what could be lurking in the basement of this place.”

Solas places a marker in his book and sets it on his desk. “I find I’m also feeling a little peckish.”

Though Shay sniffed out these birthday plans days ago, she doesn’t realize that the task of getting her to the venue was given to Solas all along. Varric’s logic that no one would suspect Solas of going willingly to any party would keep the suspicion down. If only the dwarf could have known Solas in his reckless youth. They probably would have gotten along rather famously.

The sounds of smothered giggles and whispers start echoing once they are halfway down the staircase. Shay throws Solas an exasperated, but amused look. When they arrive in the kitchens, the table is set with a delicious array of food and desserts, but the room looks suspiciously empty of people. That is, until the sound of Shay’s footsteps sends various members of the Inquisition bursting from underneath the tablecloth, out of the cupboards, Sera and Cole dropping down from the rafters. Iron Bull had to hide behind a spell of invisibility that Dorian casted. Solas runs a quick tally. The only one missing is Madame De Fer, who is on urgent business in Orlais with her . . . paramour.

Judging solely on Shay’s shocked and delighted reaction, no one has any cause to think she had figured out this plan days ago. She immediately grabs Cole by the shirt front, bending him down like a heavy plant stem, and kisses him soundly on the cheek.

“Thank you for my flowers,” she said.

Cole can only nod, looking rather dazed. When Shay turns to examine the spread laid out on the table, Solas catches him lightly brushing his fingers against the spot where she kissed him, his cheeks turning pink.

Yes, he is turning more human by the day.

There is barely room enough to fit everyone at the table, but no one complains. Dinner is a joyous affair, filled with stories and jokes and laughter. Solas sits quietly with Cassandra, watching everything unfold, committing every detail to memory: the way Shay basks in the outpouring of love and attention, the way Cole sneaks tiny cakes onto her plate when she’s not paying attention, the sound of Leliana’s laughter at one of Dorian’s dirty jokes, the bashful way that Blackwall offers to refill Josephine’s wine cup.

This world has so much despair and destruction in it, and he will only heap more of it on, but this moment will live in crystalline perfection in the Fade, even if he has to place it there himself.

After dinner Varric takes out a well-worn deck of cards.

“Who’s up for a game? Diamondback anyone?”

“No,’ says Blackwall immediately, shooting Solas a rather stern glance. “Not with him around. We’ll all be having to cover our bits with plates.”

Varric eyes Solas appreciatively. “One of these nights, you’re going to have to show me that skill of yours.”

“I’d rather not,” Solas says. “I see enough of your chest hair as it is without the loss of your clothing.”

The dwarf’s eyes light up. “Oho! Careful there, elf, you’re skirting dangerously close to taunting territory.”

“I’ll take my chances, Master Dwarf.”

“One of these nights you definitely will.” Varric looks around the table. “How about some Wicked Grace?”

“I have never played,” says Solas, and Varric grins wickedly.

“Then tonight’s a good a night as any.”

“Maker preserve us,” Blackwall mutters.

“Oh goody!” Shay squeals. “I haven’t played Wicked Grace in _forever.”_

“Neither have I,” says Josephine, grinning. “I do hope I remember all the rules.”

The rest of the table acquiesce, and Solas finds himself enjoying the companionable air in the room too much to leave. Varric explains the rules to the table, and there is a minor squabble between him, Josephine, and Shay about various house rules they have all played before. Though Solas has never played Wicked Grace in this iteration, a game with its mechanics has existed in some form or another since before even he can remember.

“Are three drakes better than two swords?” Cassandra asks. “I can never remember.”

“Remember how I said ‘don’t show anyone your hand?’ That includes announcing it to the table.”

Cole inspects his hand with his head cocked to the side. “There’s a crown on his head, but a sword too. His head didn’t want either.”

Varric shakes his head with fond exasperation. “Don’t talk to the face cards, kid.”

After the first couple of trial rounds, the game begins in earnest. Josephine starts the pot at three coppers.

“You don’t think that’s too daring, do you?” she asks, rather adorable in her hesitation.

Bull is having none of it. “Seriously, who starts at three coppers? Go silver or go home.”

“And what if one doesn’t have funds for such a bet?” Solas asks.

Iron Bull gives Solas a withering look. “Everyone in the Inquisition gets a salary. Even Cole has three coppers.”

“And we all know you’re not spending it on clothes,” Dorian adds with a smirk.

Solas shoots him a glare. “I’m assuming the stakes will rise in a game like this.”

“Well, if we couldn’t pay the pot in money,” says Shay, “we just took our clothes off.”

She shoots Solas a wicked glance from across the table.

“Hey! Me too,” says Varric. “Must be a Free Marcher tradition.”

“My cousins and I did humiliating dares,” adds Josephine.

Varric nods. “Also an excellent alternative.”

“So what I cannot pay in coin, I pay in dignity?” Solas asks. “Very well. Shall we?”

 

Solas folds more often than not, content to watch the others. Cole could be a dangerous card shark if he didn’t give so much of himself away. Despite her naive front, Josephine plays with the ruthlessness of her Crow brethren and cons several silvers out of the Commander before he learns not to underestimate her. Dorian tries to bluff his way out of losing hands with snarky remarks on people’s clothing or saucy, flirtatious remarks. Both Iron Bull and Shay never fold, throwing themselves at the mercy of luck with reckless abandon. Cassandra loses so often that eventually Solas begins peeking down at her hand and giving a slight nod or barest shake of his head.

And Varric watches it with a peculiar expression on his face, a smile both soft and sad. Solas remembers the stories Varric and Hawke had exchanged of their legendary nights in the Hanged Man _._ The way Varric seems magnetized to people, cajoling them under his wing, and his need for attention, does not grate on Solas since his journey with Hawke. He understands now what Varric misses, what he so desperately tries to recreate so far from home.

Eventually Solas runs out of the coin he is willing to lose. He stands up and tosses his cards back to Josephine.

“This is where I take my leave.”

“Oh come on, you still have all your clothes on,” says Shay.

“My dignity is worth more than my coin,” he says.

Both Shay and Dorian protest loudly, and even Iron Bull looks mildly disappointed, but Varric waves him off.

“Now now, it’s a big deal for Chuckles to pull his head out of those books of his and be social. Let’s not push it.”

“Thank you, Varric,” Solas says archly.

“That is true,” Shay chimes in. “Plus, we all know people have a strict bedtime when they get as old as he is. My dad had one.”

Solas sends her a stone-cold glare, and she smiles sweetly in return.

“Good night, Solas,” she says. “Sweet dreams.”

 

He is pulled from the Fade by a terribly off-key rendition of “Sera Was Never.” Blinking and reorienting himself with the dull glow of wall sconces in his room, Solas looks over to see Shay swaying and twirling her way into his room.

“I’m drunk!” she announces.

“Yes,” he confirms, noticing her rosy cheeks and glassy eyes.

“I’m too drunk for the stairs.”

“Indeed that is likely. Would you like me to carry you again?”

“Nope.” She shuffles her way over to his couch and flops down beside him, pitching sideways into his shoulder. “Goodnight.”

“Ah – Shay . . . “

Soft snores trickle from her mouth. Solas sighs.

“Heads up, Chuckles, but Bull passed around something in a flask that – oh.”

Varric sticks his head through the doorway and stops when he sees Shay passed out on the couch beside him.

“You need help getting her upstairs?” he asks. “I could get her feet, you could get her hands. It works for pig roasts.”

Solas looks down at her sleeping form, her mouth slightly open and drool already starting to form on his sleeve. He could carry her himself and she would probably not stir in the slightest the entire trip to her room, but something in him balks at disturbing her.

“No, thank you. She can stay down here until she wakes. Her presence is not a disturbance.”

Solas doesn’t miss the flash of speculation that crosses Varric’s face before it smooths itself into a smile. “I’ll leave her in your capable hands, then. Goodnight, Solas.”

“Goodnight, Varric.”

Shay is sleeping heavily enough that Solas can reach around for his pillow and prop it between the back of his head and the wall without disturbing her. He makes himself comfortable, careful not to jostle her, and closes his eyes. Between the rebellion and the Inquisition, Solas can fall asleep just about anywhere, in any position, without much effort, and tonight is not any different. He slips into the Fade like one slips into a warm bath.

It takes him a while to find the specific place and time – it happened so very long ago in his memories and it’s not an occasion he deemed very important. But the more he remembers, the more the surroundings sharpen into something vivid and almost real.

Then he looks for the Anchor and tugs Shay to him.

Though he has only taken Shay to the Fade a scant few times past their first time in Haven, each time she jerks about like a startled deer, hands reaching towards knives Solas ensures are never there, and only relaxes when her gaze catches sight of him.

“Well, hello Solas. Fancy seeing you here,” she says.

“Good evening, Shay. Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just, you know, the Fade always kind of freaks me out at first.”

Solas pauses, feeling a prick of guilt. “You find it uncomfortable to be here?”

“No, not when you’re with me. But in those first few moments I always worry that maybe Corypheus opened up a fade rift under my bed somehow or I got poisoned with some kind of weird drug and I’ve gone completely mad, or even just straight up kidnapped. I’m never going to get used to waking up in a different place than where I fell asleep.”

“You technically have not awakened,” Solas points out.

“Don’t even get me started on the mind fuck that _that_ is.” She gazes around their surroundings. “So where are we today?”

The hillside they stand atop of does not differ from the typical one, but the city that spreads out underneath will be unlike any that Shay has ever encountered. The sun has just set here, the rim of the horizon still tinged with gold. The fresh mountain breeze carries with it the smell of street food and the laughter of the festival happening below.

“An ancient city,” he replies, “so old that not even ruins remain.”

“That sounds amazing,” she says. “Are we exploring it?”

Explore one of the ancient cities of Arlathan? Solas does not think he can handle treading streets that he had haunted in what does not feel so long ago to him. The spirits would react badly to his riot of conflicting emotions.

“No, I brought you here for the show,” he says. “From here the view will be excellent. Have a seat and get comfortable.”

She looks down in surprise at the blanket that has appeared beside her feet and plops down upon it. Solas sits beside her, leaning back on his hands.

“What show?” she asks.

“Patience. You will see.”

They watch the final glow of the sun dim into nothing and the stars winking to life above them. The air here is so peaceful, so happy, and Solas can push down the gnawing sense of loss if it means watching Shay close her eyes and take it all in, a much needed respite from the constant conflict in which she lives her life. A constant conflict he causes more often than not. At least in this small way he can make up for it.

Finally, once the sky has darkened enough, Solas hears the first sharp whistle and he braces himself for the following explosion.

Shay flails wildly at the noise, gripping his arm, but freezes in awe as she watches the embrium firework bloom to life before her.

“Holy _shit_ ,” she breathes. “How – what – _how?_ How did they do that?!”

“Magic, I’m assuming,” he says.

The festival for Sylaise always kicked off with a fireworks show, each year more elaborate than the last. Elves dedicated to her would spend the intervening year combining magics, fusing techniques, discovering new ingredients in order to create something different for the next year. Of course, later on the fireworks themselves turned into tools of destruction, the festival devolving into nothing more than a show of power, intended to strike fear.

But in this moment it is nothing more than a celebration of awe and wonder.

They watch the show sprawled out on their backs, the long grass tickling his feet, Shay’s braid long and thick enough to pile under her neck like a pillow. Solas finds himself more drawn to the way the lights of explosions play out on the planes of her face than the actual fireworks themselves. She remains too entranced in the show to notice his staring.

Something swells in him, a desire, a longing, but for what he is not sure. It bubbles up in him until he has to swallow it back down, heart pounding. He turns his gaze back to the fireworks, lest he do something completely irrational.

The show ends with a dragon, blood red and glittering, that gambols above the city, sparks shooting from its mouth, until it explodes in a shower of light that falls like rain upon the city beneath it.

Slowly the darkness of the night creeps in after it.

“That was . . . probably the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” says Shay, turning her head towards him. “And I thought I’d seen some cool shit.”

“It wasn’t the realm of sunshine and daisies, but I thought you would enjoy it nonetheless.” He smiles at her. “Happy Birthday.”

She grins and nudges his shoulder with her own. “Gotta be unconventional, don’t you, Solas?”

“As if I would waste your time with the ordinary.”

“I don’t think anyone could ever accuse you of being boring.”

“Dorian does just that at least three times a day.”

“You don’t take Dorian on dates in the Fade, do you?” she teases.

“The only place I would take Dorian would be a hall of mirrors.”

Shay laughs.

“As much as I enjoy our Fade dates, I think it is time for you to wake,” he says.

“Already?”

“Your neck is not going to thank you if you wait any longer.”

“What does that m-”

 

They both come to around the same time, Shay lifting her head from his shoulder with a wince. She gazes around the room, blinking and yawning.

“This . . . is not my bedroom,” she states.

“No. You proclaimed yourself too drunk for the stairs and fell asleep on me with a rather impressive alacrity.”

She takes a moment to process this information, her gaze still disoriented from sleep and also probably from whatever Iron Bull had given her only a few hours before.

“Oh.” She looks down at the couch they sit on, as if needing to verify it with her own eyes. “I swear to God, that’s the last time I drink anything from Iron Bull.”

“Funny – I recall you making a very similar statement the last time I had to carry you to bed. Not to mention the time that Cassandra had to.”

“Shut up, Solas. He’s very convincing.” She stands up and stretches, her back popping loud enough to make Solas wince. “And we were having such a good time and making stupid bets and --”

She freezes mid stretch, her arm clutched to her chest.

“Oh _shit_ ,” she says, eyes wide.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Did she pull a muscle? Has the inevitable hangover headache hit?

“Nothing,” she lies. She turns around on her heel and gives him a sweet smile that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Solas, we’re friends, right?”

“Yes,” he says slowly.

“And we’ve been through a lot together, you know. We’ve gotten pretty comfortable with each other already.”

“Shay, where are you going with this?” He isn’t quite sure that he wants to know.

“It wouldn’t be, like, _horrible_ , if I had to massively invade your personal space in front of a few of our companions, would it?”

“ . . . in what way?”

“So I ran out of coin and I totally should have folded and walked away but Varric was being an insufferable jackass, which is how he always is when he wins, and so I took a dare instead and now I have to --” she takes a deep breath and he fears the worst “--kiss you?”

She bites her lip and looks up at him with wide, uncertain eyes in a way that is admittedly rather alluring, and he can’t quite tell if it’s done on purpose or if she genuinely fears his reaction.

“ _That’s_ your dare?” he asks. “It’s seems rather light coming from Varric.”

“Not according to him and Dorian. They said you were the biggest fuss-bucket prude that ever graced Thedas and no spell could ever remove the stick up your ass.”

“How flattering,” he says dryly. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised, not with those two.”

"Look, it's all supposed to be in good fun," she says, tone turning serious. "But if you're uncomfortable, I'll take the forfeit."

"And what is the forfeit?"

"Oh, I'm not telling you. I value your respect too much."

He doubts that’s too humiliating, as Varric dotes on her just as much as he does Cole, but he also knows how much Shay hates backing down from a challenge.

“Is there a deadline for this kiss?”

“You’re actually considering it?” she asks, surprised.

“Well I’m not going to take being called a fuss-bucket prude lying down. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Shay laughs out loud. “What reputation would _that_ be?”

Oh the stories he could tell of his days in the Arlathan court – he had been such a flirt he could put even Dorian to shame. His celibacy is by choice, not by any lack of ability on his part. 

“One of dignity,” he says instead, though his old reputation had anything but.

 

Two days later Solas ducks into the tavern sometime after dinner. Though the place is full of patrons, Solas easily spots Shay’s cluster of companions by the height of Bull’s horns. Their table sits in the back, but still in full view of both exits. Both Scout Harding and Dagna have joined them, and seeing them together with Shay makes them all look like sisters (though he would never voice this aloud to Shay). Cards and bottles lay spread about the table.

"Look what the cat dragged in!" Varric crows at the sight of him. "Pull up a chair, Chuckles. What do you want to drink -- it's on me."

"Very kind, but no thank you."

Not that the offer isn’t tempting, but he doesn’t know the full parameters of the bet and he doesn’t want Varric to come out on top with the technicality that Solas wasn’t in his sober right mind.

Varric kicks the chair out across from him, and Solas takes a seat.

"Solas? Are you sick? Do you need some elfroot?" Shay asks, her mock surprise flawless, save for the glint in her eye. "Did the tower collapse in some kind of magical accident?"

"Is it that unusual to see me out of the atrium?"

"Yes!" says everyone else at the table in unison.

"Perhaps if I had ever been _invited . . ."_  

The sentiment is wildly unfair and mostly for humor, though to his surprise, there lies a kernel of genuine hurt underneath. 

"Well shit, Chuckles, if we knew you were interested, we would dragged you out here a long time ago," says Varric, and his surprise warms Solas. 

“I suppose even old men get tired of their books sometimes,” says Shay, her chin resting in her hand. “Isn’t that right, Varric?”

“I’m sorry, Inquisitor, you’ll have to speak up. I left my ear trumpet upstairs.” Varric gathers the cards and shuffles them with an expert hand. “Deal you in, Solas?”

“In what?”

“In Wicked Grace. Shay has quite a bit of coin to win back.” He gives Shay a smirk from across the table and she glares at him.

“I’ll play a few rounds, sure.”

Though Solas did not favor cards as much as chess, he does enjoy himself, despite the air of gleeful expectation that lay thick over the table. Solas has no doubt in his mind that every soul at that table knew of Shay’s debt to Varric, even if they weren’t present at the last game.

Eventually the night wears on longer than Solas was used to, and he stands up to make his excuses to bed.

“The Fade waits for no elf,” says Dorian, the curl of his smirk softened by a hint of genuine fondness.

“Older people have stricter bedtimes – or so I’ve heard,” says Harding, wine making her tongue more vicious.

Solas waves these comments aside. “Thank you for a lovely evening. Perhaps I will enjoy more of these in the future.”

“Just go to bed, Solas,” says Varric, rolling his eyes. “You don’t have to make your farewells like you’re at a soiree, for gods’ sake. And you’re more than welcome to drop in any time. We’ll deal you in.”

“A kind invitation, Master Tethras. I thank you.” Solas gives Varric a short, formal bow just to be irritating, and the dwarf chuckles.

“Goodnight, everyone,” he says and there are various waves and murmurs of replies from the others.

“Hold on, Solas, aren’t you forgetting something?” Shay pipes up.

Solas makes a show of padding his pockets and gazing back at the table.

“No?” he says slowly.

Shay rolls her eyes. “Your goodnight kiss, stupid.”

“My _what?”_

She stands up on her chair, putting her at almost eye level with him, grabs two fistfuls of his shirt and pull him in a loud, closed mouth smack that no one would consider sensual or intimate. But just as she pulls away, Solas cups her face in his hands, fingers buried in the back of her braid, and kisses her with the passion and utter shamelessness he was known for in the Arlathan court.

Her sharp gasp gives him pause -- has he pushed her too far, out beyond the realm of a good-natured joke? But then her fingers curl in the fabric of his tunic and she kisses back, the plush of her bottom lip sliding almost obscenely against his.

Solas hasn't kissed someone in over a thousand years -- despite what Blackwall and Sera believe about his relationship with fade spirits -- and the kiss lights something up in him, a yearning for more that should have stayed forgotten. He pulls away, almost abruptly, before the feeling overwhelms him and turns a friendly wager into something damaging.

"Goodnight, ladies," he says, standing straight, avoiding the stunned look on Shay's face. "Gentleman."

"Holy _shit_ ," Varric's voice echoes behind him as Solas leaves.

The rest of the night bears nothing but fruitless frustration from the moment his head hits the pillow. The kiss plays in his mind on an infinite loop, a baser part of him desperate to commit to memory the feel of her hair in his fingers, the sound of her gasp, the taste of her lips, despite all pleas from his rationality.

He had not kissed (or more) a soul since the rebellion started, too focused on his goal at first to be distracted and then too paranoid to trust the intentions of those vying to be close to him and held in check by determination not to take advantage of the gratitude of those he had helped.

It had been so long, in fact, that he thought himself beyond such desires, having buried them so deeply they could never affect him again.

And why should he have suspected this reaction? After all, over the last year her touches have grown from the occasional pat on the arm to full bodied embraces, to using his various limbs as makeshift pillows. They had reached a level of friendly intimacy with each other that rendered such touches inconsequential, and he had, stupidly, assumed a joke of a kiss would easily follow suit.

He was wrong.

It took staying up half the night reading the driest of research to finally put the memory to rest only for it to leap like a flame on fresh kindling when Shay appears in his room carrying a small breakfast tray and a smug grin.

“If only you could make yourself invisible like Cole,” she says, “because the reactions you left behind were exquisite. Dorian couldn’t speak for a full minute.”

_The feel of her fingers digging into his tunic, the give of her lips –_

“Dorian speechless – that is an accomplishment,” Solas says, mouth dry.

She sets the tray down on his desk and digs into her pocket for a gold sovereign before holding it out before him.

The relief from the distraction nearly outweighs the suspicion.

“Is this bribery for another favor or payment for the last one?” he asks. “Either way offers a rather unfortunate implication.”

“Think of it as compensation for the grief I put you through last night.”

Oh, she has no _idea_ of the grief she has put him through last night, but he offers her a reassuring smile.

“It was my pleasure.” He fights for a smooth tone, as if he had done nothing more than hold open a door for her. “After dragging me through the Fallow Mire and the Western Approach, this sort of favor is hardly taxing.”

“Well, when you put it like that . . . maybe I’ll ask for it again.” She tilts her head. “You and I could make some serious coin if we could get people trying to figure out if we’re dating or not.”

For a moment she taps her chin and looks contemplative, and Solas blanches.

“I’m kidding!” she says, laughing. “If anything, consider the money your fair share of the bounty. That kiss threw everyone off their game, and I ended up recouping all my losses.”

“I’m glad to have been of service,” he says.

“I owe you one,” she says, stealing one of the slices of toast from the plate. “Let me you know if you ever want to cash in.”

She winks at him before she turns to leave, and a strange feeling swoops in his stomach.

 

That afternoon Cassandra receives some urgent news about the whereabouts of the remaining Seekers and she, Shay, Varric, and Iron Bull throw some supplies together in short order and leave to investigate. Shay is apologetic at Cassandra’s insistence of a non-mage party out of concern of what Lord Seeker Lucius could do to them if cornered, but Solas breathes a sigh of relief.

A few days without her presence should clear his head.

He organizes his research, spars with Dorian and trades techniques, and gives Varric the promised Diamondback match (which went on for hours and ended with both of them wearing their tunics and little else).

By the end of it he had convinced himself quite thoroughly that the platonic intimacy of his friendship with Shay, combined with lack of intimate touch for over a millennium had ignited baser – but perfectly natural – desires that had nothing to do with Shay and everything to do with what he has denied himself. It is not worth the risk of their easy comfort to dwell on a kiss that was meant as nothing more than a joke.

Once he has rationalized himself through these feelings, they are easily dismissed.

 

Cassandra returns with nothing but a deep furrow in her brow and a heavy book. She nods at Solas from across the courtyard, but says nothing before disappearing into the upper rooms of the armory.

Concerned, he turns his gaze to Shay who gives her head a little shake.

“It was bad,” she says. “Let me put my armor away, and I’ll fill you in.”

For several days Cassandra remains a scarce presence. She does not appear in the training yard, the tavern, the kitchens. Occasionally he will catch glimpses of her trek to or from the war room. He gives her the space she needs to process her grief, and then one morning he gathers some fruit and coffee and heads to her room.

Despite the early hour, Cassandra stands by the window, fully dressed. He knocks softly on the door, and she looks over her shoulder at him, face grave in its blankness. Holding up the coffee and plate, he silently asks for permission, and with a shallow nod she grants it.

Her desk is covered in pages of scribbled notes and the thick book she brought back with her. He gathers the notes and stacks them neatly to the side before setting the plate beside them. He offers the mug to her, and she takes it gratefully. Her eyes are dark.

“When is the last time you left this room?” he asks.

She waves a dismissive hand, takes a long sip from her cup in an attempt to prevent her answer.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, taking the plate up. “Come. Let’s get you some fresh air.”

He takes her to the farthest corner of the battlements, the place with the perfect view of the coming sunrise, the early morning wind bracing and sharp. Cassandra takes a deep breath of it and closes her eyes.

“How are you feeling, Cassandra?” he asks, though the answer is obvious on her face.

“I must look dire indeed to pull you out of your books,” she says.

“I am always aware of the state of my friends,” he counters. “But no book is worth the loss of sleep or sustenance, as you once told me before. Eat.”

She balances the plate on the parapet and eats a slice of melon, looking out over the mountains.

“How do you expect I might feel?” she says finally. “Most of my life was dedicated to the Order. I did so much I believed was good in their name.”

“The discovery of their corruption does not negate the good things you’ve done,” he says gently.

“Their corruption does not seem to surprise you.”

“Of course it doesn’t. They are an organization.”

She looks at him in surprise. “You think organizations are inherently corrupt?”

He parses his answer carefully. “Given enough time, yes. To survive, an organization must devote resources to maintaining itself. These resources inevitably accumulate until the original purpose, however pure, is all but lost.”

It is something he has seen again and again, both inside the Fade and out of it. Even this Inquisition would become so in time, despite Shay’s leadership.

“You make the Seekers sound like a mindless beast.”

“A beast, no matter how mindless, will die and give way to a successor. An organization is eternal. There are always corrupt men who hoard power for their own gain. And there are always honorable men who hoard power to fight them.”

She heaves a deep sigh. “You’re right, I know it. It’s why I have always distrusted myself with leadership. No matter what your intentions are for hoarding power, it’s still hoarding power.”

“Now that you know them to be corrupt, you must decide which parts of yourself to discard and which to keep.”

Cassandra snorts. “Yes,” she says bitterly. “Such a simple task. Any advice for me?”

“I would hardly presume. In our travels I have been impressed by your honesty and your faith. It is a difficult path, _Seeker . . ._ but if anyone can walk it honorably, you can.”

She flinches at his words, a sharp intake of breath, her fingers curling in her hand. Solas has misstepped somehow but he’s not sure how.

“My faith,” she says, her voice thick with bitterness and unshed tears. “They told me my abilities came from the Maker, a reward for my faith and dedication during my Vigil. But it was a trick, a ritual no different than the Harrowing, simply _magic_. . .”

“What do you mean?” he asks, feeling as though a heavy stone has dropped in his stomach.

“They made me Tranquil and summoned a spirit of faith to touch my mind . . . _that_ is what gave me my power. It had nothing to do with the Maker.”

His mind whirls with the implications of her words, both for the world and for Cassandra. He deals with the easiest one first.

“It has everything to do with the Maker,” he says softly. “Do you know how rare Spirits of Faith are? How difficult it is to draw them to this world? They settle for nothing less than the faith of the most pure and devoted kind. You should be proud at having accomplished something so remarkable, rather than ashamed that it was not what you thought.”

She stares at him, and he has never seen her so lost, the mask she covers over her vulnerabilities so broken, leaving her raw and bare before him. A part of him wants to gather her in his arms and embrace her, but he knows that would only further embarrass her. She is as unused to touch as he.

“Thank you, Solas,” she whispers, a tear slipping down her face. She wipes it quickly, and he turns his gaze to the sunrise, pretending not to look as her hand swipes more of them away.

“Your faith does you credit, Cassandra. I hope your Maker is worthy.”

When she has composed herself, she devours her breakfast with the speed and efficiency of someone who has not eaten in too long.

“Knowing the truth of my Vigil brings up other, more important concerns,” she says briskly, ready to get back to business.

Only Cassandra would believe the destruction of her entire identity as something of lesser importance.

“It means the Rite of Tranquility has always been reversible,” she continues. “I only knew of one mage thus cured – I thought it a fluke at the time – and . . . he had no control over his emotions. He was distraught, and it drove him mad until a templar put him down. Do you think that would have passed? If the Tranquil are cured only to end up as thus. . .”

She trails off, and Solas is too caught up in the implications of her words to answer. She speaks as though making the cure public, reversing as many Tranquil mages as she can find, is but a foregone conclusion and not the most difficult option she could have chosen. He should not be surprised that Cassandra is immediately weighing the repercussions of implementing the cure as soon as possible, but he is. The Rite of Tranquility has been the templars’ best weapon against the mages, and she plots to undercut it without a second thought.

“They would be a danger to themselves and others,” he says finally. “It is difficult to say. In your Vigil you were Tranquil for but a moment, but they have suffered much longer. Such control is like a muscle, atrophying without use. Given time it might be restored. But until then . . .”

“That may be a risk we are obligated to undertake,” she says.

“They will be grateful,” he says. “Even the ones that don’t survive.”

She nods, and now he understands the cause of her disappearance, the sleepless nights, the pages of notes. She has taken knowledge that has hurt her, that has undermined her faith and confidence in her own identity, and is using it to find a way to help those who have suffered worse than her.

If the Evanuris had only a _fraction_ of her character, there would never have been a rebellion.

 


End file.
